3 days later—
It's been a busy day. Three bodies: one elderly, one of a child, and another of a homeless woman. Molly performs her work with her customary unsung adeptness. Unconsciously, she keeps an eye on the double doors. Always hoping that maybe, just maybe, he will walk through. Even so, she knows Sherlock will be awful—demand coffee or the coat off her back, (which to her shame, she would give)—but just to be in the presence of him…she almost sighs. It is like air. Or gravity. An unrelenting law she has to abide by. Wants to abide by. He's bridled chaos in the midst of her life's unremitting monotony.
Oh, focus Molly, she berates herself. She is seating before the computer in her small, bare office, typing the last of the autopsy reports. Well, sort of typing. She has always been more of the single index finger-one-key-at-a-time kind of girl, much to her mum's disappointment. 'Secretary ten years before you were in the womb and I still could 'na pass a darn skill onto you, girl.' Molly involuntarily flinches at the memory.
She clicks save on the document and prints it out. Glances at the clock. Almost 6 pm. Dr. Lovey will be in at any moment.
The medical examiner hangs up her white lab coat and exchanges it for a shabby wool one, not unlike Sherlock's favored vestment, although hers is a faded camel color and has holes in the pockets and under the left armpit. She keeps her arms pressed tightly to her side so no one notices.
She winds a long brown scarf around her neck a few times and heads out the door. She doesn't own a car. Can't afford one, what with the taxes and fees these days, so she walks. Her flat isn't terribly far away—2 miles—so it's not too bad when the weather holds out.
The wind cuts through her cheap polyester slacks and she shivers. Molly digs in her hands in her pockets for warmth and lowers her head. One foot in front of the other. She doesn't think about work at all once she leaves those doors. The blood, the trauma, stiff limbs and crying family members. All behind her. The dead will wait. They always do.
Someone bumps hard into her shoulder, nearly causing her to fall. She throws the passing man a fleeting cross glare before continuing on her way. Molly likes to think that she fades into the crowd. The invisible woman. No one pays her a bit a notice as she moves along. Why would they? There's nothing remarkable about her features, as she is constantly reminded by Sherlock. She knows she possesses unremarkable straight brown hair, plain brown eyes a bit too large, lips too thin and a body that never quite seems to have lost its adolescent slenderness. Her dad used to tell her she was pretty. He was the only one. But she knows she has nothing that would keep a man. Sure, a few boys got past her painful shyness in when she was at the uni, and even in med school, but they never stayed long. She was too…Molly Hooper. A drink or two, a quickie on the couch and her remaining nights were spent at the kitchen table waiting for that call that would never come.
Her last fling, Jim from IT, was an exception. Small, wiry and with eyes darting everywhere and yet completely focused—he reminded her of a caged lion she saw at the zoo as a little girl. Back and forth, to and fro, no destination but always walking, watching, waiting. Jim wasn't so bad, at first at least. He even paid for a few meals out. But it was over even before Sherlock interjected his opinion. Jim was a bit odd. Lying in the sheets, unsatisfied but never willing to tell her partner, she remembers Jim playing with her hair and asking about Sherlock, of all people. She answered what she knew, all the while knowing that something was off. Jim's hand tightened in her hair—painfully so—when she said anything flattering about the consulting detective. So she lied, said he was a hateful, stupid man, and fled to the bathroom. Her scalp was bleeding.
That was some months ago.
Molly tries to push the depressing thoughts away as she pulls her keys out of her purse and climbs the rickety three flights up to her flat. It was her father's flat before he passed on. He left it to her.
She steps inside and pretends it still smells like him. Tobacco. Thick and masculine. She doesn't smoke. But for him, she doesn't mind the odor.
Molly dumps her purse on the little round table before she hangs up her coat. She doesn't like watching the telly much but turns it on anyway, just to have the noise. Puts on the kettle and heads for the shower. When she's done, she finishes making herself a cup of Earl Grey and settles into the sofa, clad in an old sweater and sweats. Actually, the forest green sofa nearly swallows her as she sits down, its padding is so wasted in the center. But that is where he dad used to sit, and she can't bring herself to get rid of the sofa just yet.
BBC News hums in the back of her subconscious. Something about bank problems and gang violence and detectives…
She closes her eyes. The pale light of streetlamps shines through the window, but here is where she normally sleeps. The bedroom is just too quiet.
Limbs untighten, stress dissipates, and for the next few hours, she'll forget how lonely she really is.
"Gang attack?"
"Yeah, that's what Anderson thinks. Not uncommon these days. Lone guy walking the dog in the wee hours of the morning. Makes a decent target for a group or someone armed."
"Roger Shackley's wallet was still on him, correct?"
"Maybe he fought back. The attacker got scared. I don't know."
John Watson frowns. "There's no other bruising on the body, even the knuckles aren't scraped."
"But he was assaulted."
"Yes, he was," John concedes.
Lestrade shrugs helplessly. "Look, I had my people comb the area. There are no witnesses. No video. Nothing. It's what we call a 'dead area.' Really bad luck."
"Or clever planning."
The detective inspector leans back in his desk chair and sighs. "Sherlock's unavailable, you said?"
"Uh, yeah, he's just a bit preoccupied at the moment."
"Meaning it bores him."
How observant. He doesn't give you enough credit, Lestrade. "Just give him some time," John says, hoping his own frustration doesn't infuse his voice too much. "Between you and me, Sherlock just went through a bit of a rough patch. An uh, acquaintance, passed recently."
"Oh, well I'm sorry to hear it." To his credit, the inspector genuinely looks distressed by the news. He tabs his fingers rhythmically on the desk before folding his hands together. "I know sometimes I take advantage of you two being so willing to help out, and all that. You have lives, too. Look, I appreciate your time, John. And Sherlock's too, when he gives it. We'll see what we can make of this mess. I'll not give up."
"I know you won't."
Lestrade's office phone rings and John takes that as his dismissal.
As he leaves the Met, he looks down at his own phone. Seven missed calls. He flips through the log. All Sandra. Bloody hell.
The date a couple nights back went well enough, he thought. He made a lucky guess by choosing Italian cuisine, (her favorite, apparently), and even got invited for a glass of wine at her flat. The night ended there, (much to his relief, as his shins were still a bit bruised), so he returned to Baker Street to find Sherlock in much the same position as he left him—seated at the kitchen table tinkering with chemicals. The ceiling had a fresh blackened area just above the kitchen table. Mrs. Hudson nearly had a coronary.
John punches her number. Sandra answers on the first ring. He swallows and raises a hand to hail a cab.
"John?"
"Hello, love."
"What the hell is this place?"
"Uh, what?"
"Your flat! I came to bring you a treat and your flatmate, he—"
John holds the phone away from his ear as he gives the cabby a few terse directions. He can still hear her screeching through the receiver. Oh, Sherlock, what have you done now, he thinks, and wincing, puts the phone back up to his ear. Her tirade never ceases.
"—there were body parts on the table! Body parts like in a bloody horror film! You live with a complete psychopath! I called the police."
"You…you called the police on Sherlock."
"OF COURSE I BLOODY DID! Have you listened to anything I've been saying?"
"Yes, Sandra, just calm down a minute. Where are you now?"
"Locked in the bloody bathroom! He'll kill me, I know he will! The police should have been here by now…"
Her screaming has turned into full-fledged sobbing hysterics, and John sighs.
"I'm on my way, Sandra. You stay where you are."
"No! You stay away from me! I don't want to see you ever again! You're some crazy doctor making a Frankenstein monster or some such thing. I'm not coming out—"
"Ok, that's fine. There's a magazine in the cupboard." He hangs up. Swears at Sherlock under his breath and punches in Lestrade's number.
"Yes, hello again. I need a favor."
"It's hardly edible, anyway."
John is seated in the chair, his head in his hands. "What are you talking about?"
Sherlock pokes at the loaf of wrapped sweet bread on the table with his violin bow. The bread's still sitting untouched next to a bag of human cadaver toes.
"Burned along the bottom and sides, probably her first attempt at baking. Smells questionable—"
"It was a nice gesture, Sherlock. Not that it matters anymore."
His flatmate's brow creases. "Why ever not? Lestrade got her out in one piece."
"Yes. Yes, he did, didn't he? The police had to come to fetch my girlfriend from my own bloody flat!"
"You're upset?"
John looks up at him incredulously. "Of course I'm bloody upset! I liked her, Sherlock!"
"Despite the kicking?"
"Yes, despite the kicking!" He stands and goes for his coat. "It's bloody well over with now. She thinks we're murdering psychopaths."
He shrugs on the coat. "Put the toes away. Anyway, you heard Lestrade. Licenses are needed for keeping that sort of thing."
"I don't need a license."
"You're not above the law, Sherlock. Neither of us is. Lestrade has cast a blind eye toward a lot of things. That won't last forever."
"He needs me."
John glares at Sherlock. "And that changes everything, doesn't it?"
"It does."
"Well…good for you."
Before he says anything else he'll regret, the doctor turns on his heel and exits the flat. As he steps outside 221B Baker Street, he takes a deep breath of the night air. Ah, a London night. Nothing quite like it. Just then, a passing bike messenger nearly clips him, and John has to leap back against the brick wall to avoid being flattened. He regains his breath after a moment and laughs to himself. What was he thinking of again? Ah yes—there's no place like London.
The café next door is still open, speaking volumes of its quality cuisine, but a cheap coffee and roll may do the trick to relieve John's pounding head and empty stomach. Anyway, as much as he hates to admit it, Sherlock was right. Sandra's baking looked less than appealing, especially after sitting next to cadaver parts all evening long. Not that he'll have the chance to suffer her baking again, he remembers sourly.
Forty-five minutes and a crap telly show later, he steps out of the café, coffee in hand. It's begun to drizzle, but he doesn't really mind. Just stands for a minute under the café awning, sipping the hot drink.
"John Watson?"
He turns, seeing a stunning brunette smile at him from under a black umbrella. For a moment, his heart beats a little faster before he recognizes her. His lips flatten.
"Mycroft has my number. Tell him to call."
She takes a step closer and lays a manicured hand on his arm. Runs it lightly up and down his sleeve. "John, let's not be difficult."
She's persuasive, he'll give her that. With her velvet purr and hint of a smirk as she glances between him the waiting black Jaguar, any man (or woman) would be hard-pressed not to follow.
But he's painfully tired of the dramatics.
"I've had a bit of a bad day, and I would really just like to be left alone right now. Mycroft has the whole British government to do his spying for him. He hardly needs me."
"John. Let's go."
She smiles again at him. This time, he sees the threat in it.
He takes one last sip of his coffee and submits.
Mycroft Holmes never ceases to amaze him with the assortment of sinister derelict buildings and factories he has at his disposal when he wants to abduct John for one of their "talks." Tonight is no different. John hasn't the slightest idea where he is, but he has been through enough such experiences to believe that no real harm will come to him. With a sigh, he steps out of the Jaguar and looks around.
He finds Mycroft standing a few yards away, posed with his umbrella like he is about to begin a stage number. Dramatic, indeed.
"Good evening, John."
"Mycroft."
He feels the elder Holmes' sharp gaze running up and down his person. "Ah, another girlfriend gone. Pity. My condolences." His voice is slippery and discordant and insincere, utterly contrasting his younger sibling's polished tones.
John's head cocks slightly to the side. "How would you kn—oh never mind."
Mycroft smiles, though it wouldn't charm a viper. "And how's little brother?"
"Well enough, considering I think he sees right through your Adler bullshit."
"Ah. Well, that's to be expected."
"Is it? Is it ok that Sherlock's been lied to about the whereabouts of the only woman he's ever—," John has to pause to choose his words, "been attracted to?"
Something dark passes over Mycroft's steady gaze, but his thin-lipped smile never changes. "Attracted to? Possibly, in some sense of the word. Though I doubt Irene Alder's tastes were ever really for him. She liked puzzles. Sherlock is one of the best, as you well know."
John isn't quite sure what direction Mycroft is taking the conversation, but every fiber of him is on edge.
"Yeah. Ok. Well, there you have it. He's coping. Anything else?"
"There, there, John. I'm only concerned. Remember that."
"Great. Can I go now?"
Mycroft's eyes narrow, and John can't help but stand a little straighter.
"Sans his late intellectual sparring partner," the elder Holmes continues, "what else has my brother done lately to occupy his time? You're blog hasn't been updated."
"He's… being Sherlock."
An eyebrow rises. "No new…acquaintances?"
"He has me."
"Of course he does. How could I forget? Although I doubt your dimensions are 32-24-34. Perhaps that's for the best."
John's gaze ices over. "Ok, we're done here." He turns and walks back to the car.
"No need to be so defensive, John," Mycroft calls out to him. "I hardly think Sherlock needs a bulldog."
John opens the door and looks back at Mycroft.
"No, he doesn't. Perhaps that's why you're afraid to talk to him yourself." John slams the door and doesn't look back as the Jaguar speeds away into the night.
20 minutes later—
John squints out the blackened window as the Jaguar pulls alongside the curb.
"It' a block away still."
The brunette looks John over and shrugs. "I thought your limp was psychosomatic?"
"It is…was, but—"
"Then you'll walk a block, Dr. Watson." She looks back down at her phone again. John sighs and gets out a block from 221B. The car disappears down the street.
It is well after midnight, and the street is eerily tranquil. He takes him time, watching the shadows. Listening. It's so very quiet tonight.
At last, John arrives at his doorstep. The blood drains from his face.
"Oh, God."
A/N: Please feel free to leave encouragement and/or feedback. It is the only (and best) reward for writing to an online audience.
