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Molly managed to hail a cab to Baker Street, a luxury she seldom allowed herself. She wanted the privacy to think without the energy of dozens of strangers milling about her. The buildings of London zipped by as she pondered how much more was required of her during this charade. She knew Sherlock would use her as long as he could, as long as she was useful to him. And she, being the daft idiot that she tended to be around him, would go right along with it.
In a way, she had begun to find herself getting over him in recent days. He may have used some lovely words today, but she knew the truth – she didn't count. Not in the way that the others did. He even came right out and said that was the reason Moriarty missed her as a target. What kind of life was that, to live knowing you didn't count? The torch would always be burning for Sherlock Holmes, though, no matter how much her head tried to convince her to move right along.
As the cabbie neared the corner for 221B, Molly took note of a tall, familiar figure standing in the path of the car, an umbrella casually tucked under one arm and a modern bowler held in the other.
"Miss?" the cabbie asked her, not sure what to do.
"Could you stop here, please?" she told him, sliding a hand along the handle as the cab rolled to a stop. "It's alright, he's an acquaintance."
She quickly paid the man and hopped out of the cab, shrugging her satchel higher onto her shoulder as she made her way over to Mycroft.
"No doubt my brother has been left to his own devices, already," he drawled. He seemed very unfazed by the fact that Sherlock had just plunged five stories off a building and survived.
"He's looking for you, actually," Molly informed him. She glanced toward the corner. "Has anyone seen you here?"
"No, I should think not," he replied casually. "But I'll keep this brief. Miss Hooper, Sherlock can manage to lead people into dangerous situations. Ones they would never dream of finding themselves in otherwise, simply because of some ardent fascination with his genius or 'talent.' The fact that he is currently a free agent of sorts makes him particularly volatile."
"I think I understand what you're trying to tell me," she said meekly.
"Not the half of it. To the world, Sherlock Holmes is dead. Disgraced. And at this point there is only so much I can do to help him. There may come a time, quite soon, that I will not be able to interfere. Do you follow?"
Molly merely nodded.
"I'll do my best. He is my brother, after all," Mycroft placed the bowler atop his head and tipped it toward her. "Good evening, Miss Hooper."
He strode passed Molly and she turned to watch him walk towards a nondescript black town car. Pausing, he turned back to her with what she could only describe as a worried look.
"Do look after him," he instructed her. "He needs someone to do so. He always needs a lifeline to come back to."
She jumped a little as her phone vibrated once in her pocket. Mycroft gave her a knowing look.
"And it appears you're it, for the time being."
With that, Mycroft disappeared into the car and was whisked away.
"Was I just put in charge of babysitting Sherlock Holmes?" she muttered to herself. Brilliant. Remembering why she was there, she ignored the phone and made her way to the door of the flat, taking a deep breath before knocking. A distraught Mrs. Hudson opened the door. Molly took one look at her tear-stained face and nearly lost her resolve. Oh God, how am I going to do this?
"Oh dear, Molly!" Mrs. Hudson nearly wailed, taking her by the arm and pulling her in off the street. "He's upstairs. I've done all I could think of – cup of tea, whiskey, biscuits, help yourself to any of it. Come, please come on up."
Molly could feel tears stinging her eyes from the mere fact of being in this place, watching this poor woman wipe away tears and prattle on about comfort food for her and John. It was so unfair to do to them. She could only hope that Sherlock knew what he was doing by not telling them.
Following Mrs. Hudson into the flat, she immediately saw John. Hunched over in Sherlock's chair, his head sunk into his hands, surrounded by trays of sweets and liquor. Her heart instantly broke for him and she felt the first few tears begin to spill over. She made her way over to him, gently kneeling in front of him and tentatively reaching out to touch his wrist. John slowly looked up into her face, the horrors of the day's events cemented in his features.
"Molly," he breathed. "Please tell me it's not true. Tell me it's one of his games."
Her lip began to quiver at his words, guilt wracking her body and allowing her to pull off the most elaborate lie of her life. All she could do was shake her head, shattering his hope. She heard another wail from Mrs. Hudson and watched John's face contort in misery. Instinctively, she reached out and cradled his body as he fell into her comforting arms. She wept with them, ignoring the incessant buzzing of her phone in her pocket, knowing full well the texts from the world's only consulting detective could wait another five minutes while his friends grieved.
"I need Moriarty's body."
He didn't even bother to open his eyes from his prone position on one of the nicer couches in England as he heard Mycroft's study door open. He pointedly ignored the sigh and slamming door in response.
"I agreed to let you go through with this nonsense, Sherlock, nothing more."
"There shouldn't have been anything more, Mycroft," he said, annoyed. "Sadly, there is now a body, a very important one, that needs looking at."
Mycroft sauntered over to the liquor tray of his study, pulling a tumbler from its resting place and uncorking the crystal of Scotch.
"I can only assume you want that poor girl to do the honors," he sighed as he poured himself a generous helping.
"Anyone else would be out of the question," Sherlock replied, sitting up to fix his brother with a tired look, draping his arms along the back of the couch. "Obviously. Not to mention she's the only one who could be properly trusted with the task."
Mycroft swirled the amber liquid in his glass, considering.
"I'll give you one hour in the lab," he conceded, sipping at the soothing liquid. "I'll send a car 'round for her at eight."
Sherlock bounded up from the couch, eager to be out of his brother's presence. He swooped up the hunter green rain slicker and matching hat he had snatched from the morgue locker room and donned them quickly. Mycroft gaze him a quizzical stare.
"What on earth are you wearing?"
"Molly said I was too dashing to be in public without a disguise. No doubt fearful that I may be ripped apart by a mob of hormonal women."
Molly emerged from 221B a near shaking mess.
"Never again, Sherlock Holmes, never again," she mumbled under her breath as she walked at a fast clip to the corner of the block, reaching into her pocket and exerting a death grip on the phone as though that alone could substitute for wringing his own neck. "The next time you plan on faking your death you can bloody well do the dirty work yourself. So you jumped off a building… I'd rather jump off a building than do that ever, ever again…"
The moment she rounded the corner, out of site of the flat, she pulled the phone from her pocket and slid it open. Twelve new messages.
New phone, untraceable, don't show anyone SH
Tell Mycroft to stop bothering you and get home already SH
The black box from the desk – nick it SH
Laptop too SH
Ignore laptop, John will notice SH
Molly sighed and skipped down several messages.
Why is the inside of the pocket on this slicker all jammy? SH
Car, eight o'clock SH
Unbelievable. She was going to have to learn to speak Sherlock. For the longest time all she wanted was for the man to talk to her and now she was realizing there was an interesting side effect to being the important piece in his puzzle. She had no idea what that last message meant exactly, but she assumed it was safe for her to go home and grab a bite of dinner before her next assignment.
She had only just finished putting the rest of her Chinese take-out in the fridge when she heard her phone chirp again. Quickly wiping her hands on a kitchen towel, she reached for the phone and read the message.
Waiting outside
Gathering her things, she headed out the door and down the few steps to the street, only assuming the black car waiting at the curb was for her. She stepped tentatively up to the driver's window and motioned for the driver to roll the window down. He obliged.
"Erm, sorry, just checking… who sent the car?"
"Mr. Holmes, miss. I can call 'im if you like, verify."
"No, no, just checking, like I said," Molly assured him, letting herself into the backseat.
In no time they were at a government building she had probably passed a thousand times on her way through the city but had never looked at twice. A security guard met the car and she was led through a side entrance and down a stairwell to a basement facility. The first room they walked through was a pristine lab – she would have access to any amount of equipment she could ever need, she could see that clearly enough. A set of double doors let to an autopsy room. A single table was occupied, white sheet draped carefully over the body. Her breath caught slightly in her throat. She hated to admit Sherlock was somewhat right. This man had been a homicidal maniac, but for a few lovely dates he had been the man who opened doors for her, pulled out her chair, chatted with her about books and music, kissed her…
"You've got an hour, miss," the guard told her. "Be down to fetch you then. Intercom is on the wall just there if you need anything."
"W-what?" Molly looked at him. "Is there, um, no one else coming?"
"Who else would there be?"
Molly looked down, disappointed.
"Nothing, nevermind," she shook her head, giving the guard a small smile. "I'll be just fine."
He tipped his hat at her and left the room. Molly looked around, realizing this would no doubt be her lot. She placed her things near the door and ceremoniously donned her spare lab coat she had been fortunate enough to have at hand. Her hands worked at the worn smooth buttons, focusing her mind to the task at hand and trying not to feel like she'd been stood up. Once dressed with gloves on, she rounded on the body in the middle of the room. She forced her mind blank of memories.
"Time to do what you were trained to do," she told herself. "Be a scientist."
She was exhausted by the time she got home. Molly was used to pulling long hours, but helping fake a death and autopsying an ex-boyfriend did add a bit of stress to the day. Heading straight for the kitchen, she swiped a wine glass from her cupboard and popped open a bottle of Sauvignon Blanc. The wine had barely touched her lips when there was a knock at her door. She closed her eyes in frustration.
"No, no, no…" she muttered as she crossed the room to open the door. Her eyes widened as she came face to face with Sherlock leaning against her door frame, rain slicker draped across an arm and looking appropriately disheveled. "Oh! Sherlock, w-what are doing here?"
"I need a place to stay," he said, giving her a charming smile.
