"Greg, he's alive, I know it!" John pounded his fist down on the detective's desk.
Lestrade stood up and shut the door to his office. He looked at his friend. "John, the mortician declared him dead. You watched him fall and hit the ground. I'm sorry John but he's gone!"
John shook his head. "Molly lied. I think they must have had some sort of-of plan."
Detective Lestrade looked skeptical. "Did she tell you she lied?"
"Well, not exactly, but I found this," he handed him the little makeshift note.
"Is this a napkin?"
"Yes, but-"
"She wrote their plan out on this?"
"No, no, but see it says 'I lied too.' Right there." He nearly had to get on the desk to point the miniscule writing on it.
Lestrade read the message. "What is it you want me to do with this?"
"You have connections; ask them to look for him."
Lestrade sat on the corner of his desk. "If he was alive, do you really think he'd let anyone find him before he wanted to be found?"
"I saw him."
Lestrade finally looked interested. "When? Where?"
"Two days ago, when Molly left the note." He said. "He was standing on the corner."
Lestrade frowned. "The fog in that part of London was so thick you could have cut it with a knife all weekend John. You expect me to believe you saw all the way to street corner?"
"Damnit Lestrade!" John rose from his seat. "I know what I saw!"
Lestrade moved his coffee. "Have you been going to your shrink?"
John froze, as if he knew he had stepped into a trap and if he moved he'd trigger it. He spoke quickly, as he always did when he was angry or defensive. "W-w-what does that have to do with anything?"
Lestrade pulled a file out from a drawer. He set it in front of John. It had his name in big capital letters on the tab. "Because this says that you haven't been. When Sher—when we first hired you on as a consultant, I contacted Ella to see if she thought you were…able to take on the job. We stayed in contact. She emailed me last week and said you had ceased coming to see her about two months ago."
"That…that is unlawful. Patient privacy."
Lestrade put up his hand in defense. "I looked it up: everything I asked her was legal."
John inhaled and exhaled quickly. "So, you're not going to do anything about this?" he motioned to the piece of napkin.
Lestrade sighed. "John, I'm sorry, but there's nothing to do."
"But he's alive and—"
Suddenly Sergeant Donovan opened the door. "There's a floater found in the river. Looks like it's that missing kid."
Lestrade sighed. "Great."
Sergeant Donovan looked at John. "How's things?"
"Just fine, thank you Sally." He said, trying to keep his voice calm.
Lestrade rose from his seat. "I'll be out in a mo' Sally. Just let me wrap this up."
She nodded and with a quick look at John, she shut the door.
"Lestrade," he looked up at his friend. "Please."
Lestrade gave a long sigh. "Okay," he said finally. "I'll see what I can do. But if you'll excuse me."
John thanked him and left, shutting the door behind him. After exactly thirty seconds, he picked up his mobile and dialed quickly.
After a moment he said "He's just been in. Yeah. Okay, I will."
He hung up and after grabbing his jacket off the back of his chair he left.
John sighed as he sat down in the black cab. He really hoped Lestrade was taking this seriously.
"Address?" asked the cabbie from the front.
"Right, sorry, 221B…" he stopped.
"Sir?"
"Sorry, umm, just moved." He gave the cabbie his new address and then closed his eyes for the rest of the ride.
Once he had stepped inside his new flat, nearly twenty minutes from the one on Baker Street, he dropped his keys on the table and grabbed a beer out of the fridge. He popped the cab off using the counter and just left it where it fell. He walked around into the sitting room and nearly dropped the bottle.
"Hello Mr. Watson." Mycroft Holmes was sitting in the recliner in the middle of the room. His legs were crossed and his fingertips were pressed together, his elbows resting on his knees.
"Mycroft." He said. He hadn't seen Mycroft since the funeral. "Can I help you?"
Mycroft smiled. "I heard you were having some trouble with Molly Hooper. I was wondering if all was under control."
"Everything's fine."
"I heard she was having problems with grief."
"So she hits the pubs after work." John said hardly. "There's nothing wrong with that."
He, of course, had been telling her the opposite just two days earlier.
Mycroft smiled. "And you? How are you?"
"I'm just fine." He said for the second time that day, his voice on the edge of anger. "And how about you Mycroft?"
Mycroft smiled again. "I'm quite well."
"Well great." He could hear it now, the anger.
"Well, then," Mycroft stood. "I'll be off."
"Great, good seeing you." He walked Mycroft to the door.
When he stepped out, he turned back and opened his mouth to speak but John slammed the door closed. He took a swig of his beer and went back into the living room. Seconds after, there was a knock on the door.
He slammed the bottle down on the counter as he walked past. He threw the door open. "What! Oh, Mary, I'm sorry."
Mary smiled and let herself in. John looked out onto the street where a black town car was pulling away from the curb, the window rolling up as Mycroft's head disappeared behind it.
"Did he say something to you?" John asked Mary as he closed the door.
"Who? Oh the man in the car, yes, he asked my name."
"What did you tell him?"
She smiled and in a perfect Irish accent she said "I told him my name was Mary O'Neary."
John smiled. "Why didn't you tell him your real name?"
She shrugged. "I didn't like the look of him. Who is he?"
"He's…was my old flat mate's older brother." He grabbed another bottle of beer out of the fridge and handed it to her. "He works in government."
She popped the cap off, using the counter. "Ah, explains why I didn't like him."
John smiled. "Yeah, well, no one really does."
Mary looked around. "It's nothing like your old apartment, excuse me, flat. Did you work very hard at that?"
"I did actually. I'm glad you found it so easily."
He had texted her half an hour ago and asked if she wanted to come over.
"Well, you know the cabbies here are good." She said and took a sip. "But since you told me about the case, what did you call it, 'A Study in Pink'? I find cabbies a bit shady now."
John laughed. "Yeah, me too."
"So did you talk to your detective friend today?"
"Yeah, I did." He replayed the earlier conversation with Lestrade in his mind. "He says he'll help, but I think he was just trying to get rid of me."
He had told Mary about the note under the tea cup. He knew that Sherlock wouldn't have approved of him telling her so many things, but he just felt like he could trust Mary with anything. He'd known her for such a short time, but…there was something strong there. Maybe it was just the bond a person got with another person when they were grieving.
"Why are you staring at me like that?" Mary asked.
"Sorry, didn't realize I was."
But she was smiling and this made him smile. They were so close he could smell her perfume. He started to lean in and was pleased when she started to lean in as well. Their lips were just about to touch when there was another knock at the door.
John pulled back. "Oh what now?"
"Maybe it's Lestrade."
"I doubt it." He opened the door and was punched in the face. Everything went black.
When John opened his eyes, Mary was leaning over him with a concerned look. Her blonde hair was like a halo of gold around her heart shaped face.
"Are you alright John?" she asked. "I called the police."
He sat up and as soon he did, his head felt like it was being ripped apart. He gasped in pain and put a hand to his head.
"Careful, you might have a concussion." Mary helped him up and sat him in one of the kitchen chairs. She muttered something about getting ice and came back with a wash cloth full of ice. "Here, just rest this on-"
He cringed as she rested the ice on his temple. "What the hell happened?"
"I don't know, he knocked you out and then I hit him over the head with my beer bottle."
"What?"
She nodded to the door. He turned and saw the unconscious body of a young man, liquid and broken bits of glass about his head.
"You did that?" he asked.
She grimaced. "Instinct?"
The sound of police sirens made his head hurt more. He pointed to the body. "Look through his pockets for me, will you, before the police get here?"
"I already did." She handed him a folded up piece of paper. "This was all he had. Well, and a gun. I put it on the cabinet."
John put the make-shift ice pack on the table top and unfolded the paper. He felt a shiver run down his spine. It was a picture of him that looked like it had been torn from a newspaper. He was smiling and wearing a tweed cap. And in the corner, he could just see the profile of someone wearing a hunter's cap.
"He's an assassin." John said, his voice hard and cold.
The door was flung open as Lestrade and Sergeant Donovan came in, their guns poised to shoot. They saw the body of the intruder and Sally bent to feel his pulse. Lestrade came over to them.
"What happened?" he asked.
After Mary had relayed the story, John showed Greg the paper in his hand.
"This was in his pocket, along with that gun." He put the cloth of ice back on his head, wincing.
"Sally, get someone to bag that."
Once the girl had left, Lestrade opened the picture.
"You think he was here to kill you?" He asked.
"No, I think he was here for a cuppa tea." John said sarcastically. "Of course he was here to kill me!"
"But we can't be sure..."
John glared up at Lestrade.
"Alright then, we're sure."
John's eyes came to rest on the back of the picture. He stood up suddenly, making both Lestrade and Mary jump, and hurried from the room.
"John?" Mary asked, concerned as he appeared again, with a photo album.
"Mrs. Hudson made this sometime ago." He dropped it on the table and carelessly tore it open. It was full of news articles with titles like: Brilliant Consultant Solves Smith Murder and Sherlock and Watson: Business Partners or Life Partners?
John turned the pages quickly until he came to rest at a particularly long article titled Consulting Detectives and St. Bart's Mortician Solve a Fifty Year Old Cold Case. A picture of three people was posed under the tile. He took the picture from the Lestrade and laid it next to the picture in the article.
"It's from this article." The pictures matched.
"Isn't that Molly?" Mary asked.
The picture in the article was of three people: John, Sherlock, and Molly. They were standing on the steps of St. Bart's. Molly was blushing and trying to hide behind Sherlock's tall frame, but her face was clearly visible.
"Lestrade," he said. "Molly's in trouble."
"What makes you think that?"
"This is the only picture of the three of us."
"So?"
"This article was from a case last year. There have been hundreds of other pictures of just me or just Sher—or just us." He pointed to the picture again. "Why choose this picture?"
Lestrade looked doubtful. "John are you sure that maybe—?"
John slammed his fist down on the table so hard that Mary nearly fell out of her chair in surprise. "Don't bloody do that! Don't talk to me as if I'm a child! Yes, I'm grieving and that changes my paradigm on things, but do not act as if I am….lost."
They were silent as they watched John struggle with his building anger. He cleared his throat and tried to speak calmly. "I'm sorry, I just…I'm sorry."
"Why don't we go and check on Molly, John?" Mary asked, resting her hand on his clenched fist.
He looked at her and she gave a small smile. He nodded.
"I'll drive you." Lestrade said.
John held up a hand, the other held Mary's, and walking past Lestrade, he said "We'll take a cab."
After the silent ride in the cab to St. Bart's, John felt better. Mary hadn't tried to push him into talking or said anything at all. She just held his hand and watched out the window again.
Walking down the long hallway to the morgue on the second floor felt familiar in an almost good way. He could picture Sherlock walking next to him, on their way to solve another case. But then the thought was replaced by the memory of him on his knees, crying and begging Molly to tell him she was lying. She had just slumped against the wall and slipped down to the ground, watching him, her face full of disbelief.
Shaking himself out of his reverie, he opened the door to the morgue. Cold air rushed past him, making him shiver through his jacket. The lab was empty. He walked past the different tables of vials and tubes until he found the door to the examination room.
Mary screamed as they walked in. "What the hell are you doing!"
Molly's hand, which was griping a riding crop, stopped in mid-air as they came in. Her eyes darted from the naked corpse to the terrified Mary and the bored looking John and she smiled sheepishly.
"I swear this is all for medical research purposes." She said, lowering the crop to her side.
"Testing bruising formations again Molly?"
"Yes, there's this case and well…thought I'd try it out." She set the riding crop on a metal tray table next to her.
"Can we talk?"
Something in John's voice made Molly's face scrunch up in fear but after a deep breath she relaxed and nodded. She turned around and hollered louder than maybe she needed to. "Marcus!"
After a few seconds of no reply, she hollered again, louder. "MARCUS!"
A tall, lanky young man with spiky hair which seemed to shoot off in all directions came running into the room, nearly tripping on the door frame as he did. He looked flustered and childlike.
"Sorry Doctor Hooper." He said.
Molly took off her rubber gloves. "Text me when the bruises on Mr. Johnson have formed, should be sometime in the next hour."
Marcus looked at the dead body and blanched. "Yes, ma'am. I mean, Doctor Hooper!"
Molly said nothing else and led the others out of the mortuary.
They went up to the hospital's cafeteria and sat down with a cup of coffee in each of their hands. At first they sat in silence, looking at each other, waiting for someone else to speak.
Finally Molly cleared her throat. "What's up John?"
He reached in his pocket and dropped the crumbled piece of napkin on the table in front of her. She glanced down but didn't look at it for more than a second.
"What about it?"
"What do you mean 'I lied too'?"
She said nothing as she stared at him. Finally she said. "Just ask something and I will tell you what I know."
"Fine," he took a sip of coffee. "Did you know before he went up there that he wasn't going to come back down?"
She swallowed. "No."
"Did he tell you that he planned to kill himself?"
"Not exactly."
"So, no..." He sat back in his seat. "Did you know that Moriarty was on that roof?"
"No. I wasn't sure. But I guessed…too late though."
"Did you help Sherlock in any way that night?"
"I found him a body." She whispered.
"A body?"
She nodded. She had gone pale. "He needed me."
"Molly," he sat forward so that he was a hairs-breath away. "Is Sherlock alive?"
Molly swallowed again. "I…I think he is."
"But you did the autopsy?"
"Yes."
"On Sherlock's body?"
"The face was mashed in when they brought it to me." she choked a bit. "Hardly looked human."
John felt his stomach twist and flip as he remembered the blood.
"What was the cause of death?"
"Broken neck."
"And the rest of his body?"
"Mostly broken bones."
"But is it possible that it wasn't Sherlock?" Mary leaned in as well.
Molly nodded.
Without another word, John pulled out the picture the assassin had had on him. He showed it to Molly and explained what had happened and what his current hypothesis was.
"Why would someone want us dead?" she asked, her face white as flour.
"I think they think that we know that Sherlock is alive."
"But we don't know." She pointed out.
"It doesn't matter to them."
"Who's this 'them', I mean who could it be?" Mary asked.
Molly and John looked at Mary. "Anyone."
"Well, that's a bit paranoid, isn't it?" she tried to smile.
"Sherlock had a lot of enemies." John sighed.
"But if they think he's dead, why would they come after you?"
"Because they don't think he's dead. They know he's too clever to have jumped off that roof without a back-up plan." John realized that this thought had never occurred to him before in the last three months. Of course he would have had a back-up plan! He felt like smiling at the thought, the new hope.
"So what do we do?" Molly asked.
"We keep an eye out for each other." He smiled at her encouragingly. "I'm thinking about going and staying with Mrs. Hudson, she may be in danger as well. Maybe you should come as well. There's extra rooms."
"For how long though?" Molly crumbled up an empty sugar packet. "We can't hide forever, can we?"
"Just until we figure this all out, alright?"
Molly nodded. There was a small beep from somewhere on her person. She pulled a mobile out of her lab coat.
"It's Marcus," she said. "My corpse's bruises have begun to from. I've got to get to work."
John and Mary stood up with her. "Alright, text me when you get off and I'll meet you outside with a cab. We'll go to your flat, grab some things, and then we'll go to Baker Street."
Molly agreed and they parted ways.
Alone in the lift, a few minutes later, Mary laughed.
"What?" John asked her. His spirits had risen. They had a plan and that was one step closer to finding out where Sherlock was.
"Is it always like this with you?" Mary asked, leaning against him, smiling. "Full of adventure and danger?"
He nodded. "Yeah, pretty much."
"Well," she looked up at him, her lips just inches from his. "I like it."
John had begun to lean down to kiss her when the lift ding, letting them know it was time to get out. The doors open and they drifted apart. They started to get out when someone ran into John.
"Sorry," said a man in nurse scrubs. "I'll watch where I'm going next time."
John nodded and he and Mary walked off. Before he walked out the front doors of the hospital he turned around and watched as the lift doors closed, the nurse's unreadable face disappearing behind them.
"She should have texted by now." John said, reaching into his jacket for his phone.
Mrs. Hudson placed a plate of fresh biscuits in front of him and Mary. "Oh, she's probably working late."
John put his hand in a different pocket, his face becoming serious.
"What is it?" Mary asked, worried.
"I can't find my mobile."
"Did you leave it in the cab?" Mrs. Hudson asked as John picked up the landline.
"No, I haven't used it since I called you at the hospital." He dialed his number, hoping he had left it in the loo or something. After it started ringing he put the receiver against his chest and listened for his familiar ringtone. Everyone was quiet. Nothing happened. John put the receiver down and then picked it up again.
"Who are you calling now?" Mrs. Hudson asked.
"Molly." After one ring it went to voicemail. Hello this is Doctor Molly Hooper, sorry I missed your call, leave a message at the beep…unless it's you mother. I promise I'll call you as soon as I find a suitable husband. Beep!
John slammed the receiver down. "I'm going to the hospital."
"I'll go with you." Mary said.
"No," he said. "If something's happened, you'll both be safer here."
"John," Mary said, pulling on her coat with a grin. "I think that's an insult. Mrs. Hudson can take care of herself."
Mrs. Hudson laughed. "Yes, I very well can."
"Mary, please."
"Nope." She gave Mrs. Hudson a kiss on the cheek and a hug. "See you in a bit."
She started down the stairs as John stared after her, wondering what had just happened.
"I'm sure Molly's fine, John." Mrs. Hudson said, slipping another pan of biscuits into the oven.
John pulled on his cap. "Keep the gun on you."
Mrs. Hudson tapped her hip. "Always."
John ran down the stairs after Mary.
The cab ride to St. Bart's was silent again. But not a comforting silence. This time it was an intense silence which made John want to scream in frustration. Then they got stuck in Saturday night traffic. Once they finally paid the cabbie, it had been nearly an hour since he realized his phone was gone. He and Mary had to run to catch the lift before the doors closed. He ran into a man with a bouquet of flowers, who was texting and the man dropped his phone; John muttered his apologies as he picked it up. Then it hit him.
"Mary," he turned quickly to her. "The nurse. The one who ran into me earlier, I think he took my mobile."
Anyone else might have thought it was a mad thought—hell he thought it was a mad thought—but he could tell by the look on her face that she believed him.
He pushed the button for the second floor. As soon as the doors opened, he squeezed through them with Mary in tow and they ran down the hallway until they reached the double doors. He pushed them open.
"Oh, my God." Mary whispered.
The lab was torn to pieces. Blood dripped down the cabinets from smashed vials and glass littered the floor. He ran to the mortuary and flung the doors open. Papers littered the floor. The body that had lain on the slab earlier had been pushed off and the sheet that had been covering it was pulled over across the room. Marcus was holding it over a growing red stain on his chest.
"Mary, call the police!" he ran across the room and applied pressure to the wound. Marcus's eyes slowly drifted open.
"They took her." he said in wet whisper. "They took Molly."
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