Chapter 2

"I made you some tea."

"Thanks, Mrs. Hudson." But he made no move to take it. She placed the cup on the table and turned to go, but his voice stopped her. "Wait, please. I have to tell you something." He gestured for her to take a seat and waited until she perched on the sofa.

"Sherlock wanted me to tell you something."

"What? When?"

"You know he called me, before, before…" He glanced up to see her nod. "Well, he said I should tell you that he was a fake. And that he invented Moriarty."

"What? No. Why would he…. You don't believe that, do you?"

John shrugged. "He asked me to tell you. He mentioned your name specifically. He said the newspapers were right."

"But how could that be? I don't understand. You knew him better than anyone. What did he mean by that?"

"I… Mrs. Hudson, do you think you could leave now? I'm sorry, I just…"

"Of course, dear."

But once again he called her back as she reached the door.

"Mrs. Hudson, sorry, wait, sorry. I think I'm going to have to move out."

"What? No, don't do that. If it's about the rent—"

"It's not the rent. It's just for a while, maybe. I'll get Molly to help me clear out some of the worst stuff before I go."

"All right, dear. If you must. If it's just for a bit."

He returned his gaze to the floor and she left quietly.


Molly was late. He peeked out the window to see if she was approaching, and he saw that she was already there, pacing on the pavement. Quickly he stepped back so that she wouldn't see him. He sat down in his chair, leaned his head back and closed his eyes, trying to relax. Without a task to focus on, his mind took up the familiar cycle. What was he thinking? Why did he do it? Why didn't he let me help him? I would have saved him, could have stopped him, should have told him.. told him what exactly? His mind was made up. But it doesn't make any sense. It wasn't a trick. I know that and he knows… he knew that I knew the truth. What was he thinking? His brain couldn't seem to break away from presenting these fruitless thoughts. He knew he would never discover the answers. There was no more data from which to draw any insights, and even on good days he had struggled to follow Sherlock's thought process. But he couldn't think of anything else, so he just let the familiar unhappy questions and regrets chase each other through his head.

Finally, Molly knocked and he went downstairs to let her in.

"Thank you for coming."

"No, thank you, I mean, I, I'm sorry, I should have come round," she said. "Or called, or something. Sent a card?" He frowned at her slightly but she wasn't meeting his gaze. She was usually more composed when they were alone. He had the impulse to reassure her, "It's okay, Sherlock's not here right now," but he caught himself in time.

He had followed her up the stairs, but she paused at the door to their flat— his flat, he corrected himself. Or the flat. "Come on in," he said, stepping past her. "Most of the stuff is in the kitchen. At least I hope so. We'll have to check his bedroom. I haven't been in there since—"

"His bedroom?"

"Yes, I don't usually, I mean, I wouldn't have any reason," John began, realizing he sounded as inarticulate as Molly. Oh, what was the point, anyway? Sherlock was dead, smashed on the pavement, his mortal remains had begun the process of decomposing which surely he regretted not being able to observe. But he was gone, and what Molly might think regarding when and why John might have been in the man's bedroom was immaterial. John took a deep breath. Focus on the task at hand, he admonished himself sternly. "We should check because God knows what he might have stashed in there."

It was a good thing they did, because there were some jars of… John decided the best word was specimens and an assortment of unsavory-looking petri dishes. They added these to the red biohazard bags Molly had brought, along with items from the freezer, the refrigerator and the coffee canister. John wondered if he should be annoyed about the canister. He supposed that it had been standing empty and it was meant for storage, after all. He was just glad they hadn't come across any drug paraphernalia.

"I'll pay for a cab to take you over to Bart's with this stuff," he said, as she scrubbed her hands at the kitchen sink, even though they had worn gloves.

"Oh!" she squeaked. "You don't have, I can, I don't need—"

"I insist." She had turned the water off just at that moment, and his voice was too loud. But she nodded. "How about a cup of tea?" She still seemed very tense, but he persuaded her to stay. They sat at the kitchen table, and she stared down at her steaming cup. "Molly," he began. "Thanks for coming over. You were a really good friend to him. You still are." Her eyes flashed over to his. "Helping me clean up after him," he continued, with a rueful smile.

"No problem," she murmured, dropping her gaze back to her cup.

"Nobody else knew him like we did, did they?"

"We?"

"You spent a lot of time together," he reminded her. "You watched him, didn't you?"

Her mouth twisted. "Yeah, I suppose everyone knows. Knew, I mean. I know people laughed at Silly Molly."

"No! No, we didn't. It wasn't like that at all. We never even..." He trailed off.

"Never even talked about me."

He was silent for a moment, but there was nothing else for it. "No. I'm sorry."

"It's okay. I'm not surprised." She smiled at him, really making eye contact for the first time. "He talked about you all the time. I mean not all the time, most of the time he didn't talk or I wasn't even listening. I mean I would listen, of course, when I was nearby. But generally he was by himself. But when he did talk, either it was slides, solutions, reagents, you know, science things, or John."

Not knowing what to say, John took a sip of tea.

"He called me John half the time," she confessed. "More than half, probably. Did you know he did that?"

"Yeah, he seemed to... not really realise if I wasn't there. Thought I'd hear him anytime he had anything to say. Well, any orders to give, more likely."

They chuckled.

"Look, speaking of which," he said. "He wanted me to tell you something."

"What?" Molly seemed bewildered. "When?"

"Right before," John explained, as he had to Mrs. Hudson. "He called me when I got back to Bart's that morning, and he told me to tell you something."

"Me?"

"Yes, he said your name. He said I should tell you that he was a fake."

"A fake?" she repeated with great emphasis, her eyes going wide. "What? What does that mean? What did he say that he faked?"

"He meant, you know, what the newspapers said. That he created all the crimes so he could pretend to solve them. I don't know why he wanted me to tell you that. But that's what he said, so I'm telling you. It was his last request, well, almost."

"Almost?"

"Never mind. I shouldn't have said that."

"But what do you mean? What was his last request, then?" She seemed tense again, desperate to know.

"Molly, I—"

"Please. Please tell me."

"He told me to watch him. While he—" He couldn't say it.

"Oh, John," she said, reaching over to put her hand on top of his. He dropped his head onto his forearms, not wanting her to be able to see him break down, if that's what he was about to do. "I'd better dash!" she said, standing up abruptly and sliding her chair back with a loud noise. "Please call if there's anything else I can do! Thanks for the tea! I'll see myself out!"

He heard her footsteps, the doors closing behind her. He lifted his head and saw that she had taken the biohazard bags. He hadn't given her any money for the cab.


Author's Note: Thanks so much for taking a chance on my story. I'd love to hear what you think, long or short, positive or negative. Reviews are as exciting as a jar of human eyeballs!