Well, that took a little longer than I expected. I've been working on this chapter every night for at least half an hour each for a week and half, and my brain is about fried x.x
This is a bit lengthy, being about 10.5 pages long (the first chapter was about 6) in Microsoft Word. I say this because I'm impressed that I could actually write that much without wanting to hurt myself :)
Disclaimer: Characters belong to "The Moff", Godtiss, and (I forgot to mention in Chapter 1!) Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. Story line is mine, unless I miraculously guessed bits of next season.
Molly still had not returned after several minutes, and Sherlock's overactive brain was running out of things to do to entertain itself. However, he was beginning to wonder if he had a slight concussion, since he felt that his mind was more sluggish than normal. Sitting on the cold, hard autopsy table didn't make his leg feel any better, and he winced slightly every time a bolt of pain shot up from his ankle. From his injury he could deduce that his ankle was most likely broken when he landed in the lorry, and that the bones in his shin and knee were likely bruised as well. And it wasn't just his leg; his whole body ached all over. He knew that he was lucky that he had escaped alive and with so little injury. That still didn't make the pain any less enjoyable.
Sweeping his gaze around the room, his eyes met his reflection on the glass partition of the viewing room. Sherlock frowned as he saw his bloodstained and haggard appearance. He reached up and tried to rub away some of the blood from his forehead, but with no success. Out of the corner of his eye he saw a sink that Molly used for washing up after an autopsy. Bracing himself, he slid off the table and managed to limp his way over to the metal basin, panting with the effort. When he reached it he steadied himself with hands on either edge, and shifted his weight to his good leg. He closed his eyes briefly against the throbbing of his ankle. Opening them, he turned on the taps and scrubbed his face clean, using his scarf to dry off. His coat, though, couldn't be helped, and would need to be dry-cleaned.
He twisted his body around with his back to the sink, and prepared himself to limp his way back to the table. Pushing off, he managed to take two painful steps before the door to the mortuary opened and Molly stepped in. In her arms she carried the promised splints and ace bandages, but also a set of sea-foam green scrubs and a crutch. Sherlock's addled brain registered all this before he began tumbling to the floor, flinching as he did so. With surprising speed, Molly tossed aside the things she was carrying onto a nearby table and caught Sherlock's arm before he hit the ground.
"Sherlock, didn't I tell you to stay off that leg?" she admonished as she steadied him. Her dark eyes held concern, though he could see that she was exasperated. He drew himself up to his full height in an attempt to distance himself from her, but his vision swam before his eyes. Sherlock blinked rapidly.
"I think I'm perfectly capable of functioning without assistance, thanks," he scoffed as he disentangled himself from her grasp. He hobbled the rest of the way to the table, tipping precariously a couple times. Molly's eyes narrowed at the way he stumbled.
"Are you sure it's only your leg that's hurting you?" she asked as she made her way over to where she had left the bandages and splints. She gathered up the things in her arms and turned to go to him, and she saw him glower.
"Considering the fact that I just survived falling down five stories and landed rather uncomfortably in the bed of a lorry, I think it would be more appropriate to applaud said survival without focusing on the consequences," said Sherlock, tilting his head up in approval of his own genius. She mentally rolled her eyes. Really, he was incorrigible.
"Now I know something's wrong with your head," she remarked, setting her load down next to him. "You're acting more arrogant than usual."
She froze, surprised at her own directness. Sherlock's brow furrowed in surprise as well.
Wait, did I just call him arrogant? she thought. She mentally waved it away. It's just the adrenaline talking.
"Why, Molly," he commented, "I had no idea you had such spunk."
She looked at him, her cheeks coloring. He smirked, but it wasn't mocking. Molly turned away, her natural shyness creeping back.
"Erm…let's get your ankle fixed up, shall we?" she asked, moving to get the splint. She avoided looking at him as she braced his ankle and wrapped the bandages around it. She looked up once or twice to see his blue-gray eyes staring curiously off into space.
Great, she thought, now I'm almost definitely sure he has a concussion.
Molly sighed as she stood up and admired her handiwork.
"I think that should hold you for a while," she remarked. She reached over and grabbed the crutch and held it out before him. Sherlock regarded it for a moment before shifting his eyes to her, a blank look on his face.
"You can't hobble around everywhere." She shook it for emphasis. Sherlock reached out slowly and took it from her, still regarding her blankly.
"I have some painkillers in my purse," she said after a moment, heading to her office. Molly grabbed her bag from underneath the desk and set it on the table, rifling through its cluttered contents. When she found the small white bottle of ibuprofen, she turned to leave when she saw Sherlock standing in the doorway, leaning on the crutch under his arm. His sudden appearance made her jump.
"Do you always do that?" she asked, flustered. His brow furrowed in confusion.
"Do what?" he asked.
"Scare the living daylights out of people by appearing out of nowhere!"
"It's not like I do it for fun."
Molly could feel a headache coming on. A concussed Sherlock wasn't that much different than his usual self, except maybe more annoying.
"Just-" she started, but then gave up on retorting. She thrust bottle out to him exasperation. "Here, just take the medicine."
Sherlock frowned at her command.
"I don't take painkillers," he stated. Now it was Molly's turn to frown.
"Why not?"
He paused, as if considering his answer.
"Bad history," he finally said, his expression guarded. Molly's eyes widened, and Sherlock looked away.
"Oh…I'm, uh, sorry," she said softly, feeling awkward. Sherlock had had a drug problem? She knew about the nicotine patches…perhaps he had been into harder stuff when he was younger. But she wasn't asking him to shoot heroin, and she could see the rigidity in the furrow of his brow, trying to mask his discomfort. She thrust out the bottle again.
"Well, if not for your sake, then please take them for mine," she said, insistent.
He looked back to her, then his eyes dropped to the bottle, weighing his options. Should he suffer through it and endure her nagging that he should do something to relieve the pain, or risk the chance of a relapse? It wasn't exactly cocaine, but he had had a couple close calls with sedatives. But Sherlock couldn't stand the thought of someone badgering him all the time in concern for his health. He could barely tolerate John's inquiries about his well-being.
Deciding, he warily took the bottle from Molly's grasp, popped the cap, and swallowed two dry. Molly nodded in approval.
"Okay, now, before we leave I have to finish the autopsy report," she said. Sherlock nodded, shifting his weight so he was more comfortable. Molly noticed.
"Do you want to sit down?" she asked, motioning to her chair. He made his way over, plopping down with a soft groan. She smiled softly, and jerked her thumb towards the door.
"I'll just be out here," she said, exiting her office.
Sherlock sat stiffly, choosing to observe the room to pass the time. His eyes flitted over the items Molly kept in her office.
Writing utensils on either side of the desk, handwriting on lab reports alternates slanting to the right and left: ambidextrous. Huh…
Wool trenchcoat over back of chair, with cat hair caught near the bottom hem: owns a small tabby, modest paycheck to afford such clothing.
Photograph in frame, half of which has been ripped away, visible half containing middle-aged woman with traits similar to Molly's: mother or aunt, family issues from the way the photo is ripped.
Sherlock made several more deductions to entertain himself, and also to exercise his brain. He still felt a bit sluggish from the fall.
Leaning forward, he saw Molly standing at the counter filling out the necessary papers. Sherlock felt an unidentifiable twist in his stomach as he watched her. His breath caught, and suddenly he felt woozy. Maybe he had bunged up his head harder than he thought, because there was no way the sight of Molly could affect him so suddenly.
He reclined in the chair, feeling the beginnings of the drugs to take effect. Already the soreness in his head and body was fading. He sighed and closed his eyes.
Molly signed the autopsy report with a flourish, blowing hair out her face. Holding it up, she admired her handiwork. A lump formed in her throat, as she realized the magnitude of the lie they were trying pull off. She swallowed and pushed the thought away.
Gathering up the papers, she put them in a file and turned to go back to her office. At the threshold she paused, seeing Sherlock asleep in her chair. Smiling to herself, she placed the file on her desk. She took a moment to study his face, so different from when he had been "dead". In sleep, the lines around his mouth and eyes smoothed out, and he looked at least five years younger.
It's nice to see that he actually does need rest, Molly mused. Every time I see him, he's going nonstop like a machine.
Molly suddenly remembered to check her watch, realizing their best chance of escape would be within the next hour. Hating to disturb him, she reached out and lightly grasped Sherlock's arm as it lay in his lap. She shook it gently.
"Sherlock," she said softly. He didn't respond. She shook a little harder.
"Hey, Sherlock," she said slightly louder.
Suddenly, the world's only consulting detective woke up with a huge spasm that almost knocked him out of the chair. Molly's hand flew to her mouth, trying to suppress her laughing, but bit her lip instead when she saw the look he gave her. He shifted back to a more comfortable position, still glaring.
"Now you should be the one to talk about scaring the living daylights out of people," Sherlock said snippily. She ignored the jibe.
"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to wake you up suddenly," she said, sincere, though the memory of his spasm was already stored in her mind for future amusement.
Sherlock inclined his head, acknowledging her apology. Reaching down to the floor beside him, he grasped the crutch and pulled himself up onto his good leg, essentially towering over Molly. She stood her ground, though inside she warred with herself over taking a step closer or backing away. It wasn't like Sherlock was that much taller than her, but the mere strength of his presence gave the impression of greater height.
"Well, Molly," he began, his tone businesslike. "Thank you for helping me, but I think it's time I flew the coop." He brushed past her, and she stared after him, incredulous. She blinked and rushed to block the doorway. He stumbled, trying not to crash into her, and she planted her feet as he glared down at her.
"Sherlock, are you mad?" She looked up at him with disbelieving eyes. "You must be joking. You can't leave now!" He blinked.
"Why shouldn't I?" he asked. Molly pointed, exasperated, to his crutch
"I can think of several reasons why!"
"A minor setback."
Molly closed her eyes, reeling in her annoyance.
"Why are you in such a hurry to leave?" she asked opening her eyes, and regarding him calmly. He frowned, irritated that she was blocking his exit.
"You've done everything I asked you to. You helped me fake my death, and I didn't ask for any more than that. It's only logical now that I should take my leave of you so we both can get on with other things." He tried to move past her, but she stayed resolutely planted in front of him. Molly crossed her arms across her chest, her expression serious.
"Sherlock, you're not going to get very far with a broken ankle," she stated. He tilted his head upwards defiantly.
"You're going to need to stay off of it for at least a week, if not more with the rest of your injuries," she continued, getting the feeling that he was about to become mutinous. He opened his mouth to speak, but she quickly cut him off.
"Sherlock, you know I'm right, so don't even try to argue." Something different in her tone made Sherlock stop his incoming diatribe. Molly felt a thrill tingle through her as he closed his mouth and looked away sulkily. What had gotten into her that made her so bold?
That's twice today I've convinced him I was right, she thought. That's got to be a record or something.
Molly turned and strode across the mortuary, leaving him standing in the doorway. He observed as she picked up the scrubs she had sat down earlier and returned, holding out the pants and shirt to him. He took them from her, understanding her intention, though he was still irritated.
"Disguise for sneaking out?" he asked. Molly nodded.
"Well done, Molly," he said, not unkindly. "It had crossed my mind, but it seems like you're one of the few people who has been able to read my thoughts for me. Believe me, that's a rare occasion."
Molly blinked stupidly. Was that a…compliment? This was getting weird, even by non-drugged, non-concussed Sherlock standards. She fumbled for words, while he watched her embarrassed reaction.
"Um…thank you?" It sounded more like a question, but Molly wasn't used to receiving compliments, especially from Sherlock.
"You can change in my office," she said quickly, avoiding his gaze and shooing him back into the room. Slightly amused, he turned and set down the crutch. Then he pulled off his bloodstained coat, wincing as he put weight on his bad leg. Molly hesitated.
"Are..are you going to need some, er, help?" she ventured. Sherlock's head whipped around, his eyes wide for a second before his usual mask fell back into place.
"No, no, I think I can manage," he said, giving her the smile he always gave her when he was trying to be flattering, though it fell from his face when he turned back around. Molly nodded, though she could see through the fake smile this time. She shut the door, leaving him to change.
Sherlock slowly peeled off his clothes, mourning the loss of a perfectly good suit. As he undressed, he tried not to think about Molly's question, or the images that had jumped to his mind when she had asked it. He pulled on the scrubs, his sore muscles protesting, and adjusted the shirt so it didn't bunch up in the back, trying not to imagine Molly smoothing the creases from the fabric. He forcefully pushed the thought away, rebuking himself for letting his thoughts stray to unimportant subjects.
Balancing on one foot, he gathered up his clothes and opened the door to find Molly leaning against the wall, head in her hand. She looked up at him, and he saw her bite her lip to keep from smirking. The corners of Sherlock's mouth turned down.
"What?" he demanded. Molly shook her head.
"Nothing," she said, though the image of Sherlock Holmes wearing scrubs was probably one of the funniest (and, she had to admit to herself, sexiest) things she had ever seen. His dark hair and pale skin seemed to make the sea foam color of the ensemble brighter, and the clothes hung off of his lean body awkwardly. For some reason, Molly thought he could work the look. The stress of the day was definitely getting to her.
Sherlock shuffled forward and placed his blood-soaked clothes on the counter.
"Did you manage to find a body?" he asked, turning to back to her.
"Yes," she replied, starting to attention as she remembered the final part of their plan. Heading to the far wall where the bodies were stored, she unlocked and drew out the sliding table, already labeled with Sherlock's name, that held the body of a John Doe. Sherlock followed and went around to the other side, facing Molly over the corpse. She drew back the sheet to reveal a man around the same age as Sherlock, with the same height and build. The face, however, was slightly more rounded, the nose less aquiline, and the stomach was a bit pudgier. Sherlock's eyes roved over his replacement body.
"Impressive, Molly," he commented. "The noticeable differences will of course be attributed to a botched up embalming. No one ever looks exactly the same going into the ground as when they kicked the bucket."
His eyes strayed to the John Doe's head.
"Is that a wig?"
Molly's cheeks grew pink.
"Well, yes," she said, slightly embarrassed. "It was this, or you would have been ginger at your funeral."
Smirking, Sherlock nodded, and Molly felt a small swell of pride in her chest. Just then, she noticed one of her lab assistants pass slowly by the observation window, absorbed in the file they were reading, and obviously headed for the mortuary door. Her eyes widened, and Molly went into panic mode.
"Sherlock!" she hissed, and he looked up from his musing, confused, as she flew to his side and grabbed his arm. With a strength she didn't know she had, she managed to kick the table back into its compartment while dragging a stunned detective to her office. She shut the door behind them just as the mortuary door opened. Next to her, Sherlock's face was contorted in pain, and he was doubled over. Molly rushed to his side.
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry!" she whispered frantically, her hands fluttering over his arched body. Sherlock held up a hand, and she dropped her hands to her side, biting her lip. He took a deep breath and straightened himself, balancing totally on one foot. He rolled his shoulders back, sniffed stiffly, and looked down at her. Despite her racing heart, Molly was transfixed as his eyes locked with hers.
"I'm fine, Molly," he whispered, his voice strained. Grabbing her chair, he sat down as quietly as he could, while Molly hovered for a moment by his shoulder before going to the door and putting her ear against the wood. No sound came through, so she slowly twisted the door handle and inched it open. Through the crack she could see her lab assistant pulling open another compartment and removing the sheet from another body. She waited, tense, as they wrote something in their file before pulling the sheet back in place and storing away the body. They left her line of sight, and she heard the mortuary door close. She exhaled the breath she'd been holding, relieved. She turned and saw Sherlock watching her calmly, as if they had not just almost been discovered. Molly, however, leaned wearily against the door.
"So," he began casually, "since you refuse to let me out of your sight, where would you suggest we go from here?" He looked at her expectantly.
"Well, my flat would probably be best, and you could hide there until you recover completely."
Molly's insides twisted at the thought of Sherlock in her home, but whether from nervousness or excitement, she couldn't tell. What kind of deductions could he make about her? She didn't know if she could handle an invasion of her privacy like that, whether intentional or not. But this was Sherlock, and she knew he needed all the help he could get, even if he didn't want it.
Leaning over, Molly grabbed her purse and her coat. Taking off her lab coat, she hung it on the back of her office door as Sherlock stood slowly, leaning on his crutch. Molly, having put on her regular coat, opened the door for him, and he shambled forward. She locked her office behind them, and gathered up Sherlock's bloodied clothes in her arms. Already he was halfway across the room, and she rushed to stop him before he reached the door.
"Let me check for anyone first," she said. Sherlock nodded, and Molly opened the door and stuck her head out into the hallway, looking left and right. She looked back at Sherlock.
"Clear," she said, and held the door open for him. He shuffled past her into the corridor, already heading in the direction of the nearest exit. Molly caught up with him and walked slowly alongside, listening for voices or footsteps. Suddenly, a thought occurred to her.
"Sherlock, I don't have a car," she began, "How are we supposed to get back to my flat without you being recognized? Scrubs aren't really the best camouflage in the streets." She looked up at him, her dark eyes worried.
"Don't worry, I have a stash of hidden clothes nearby that should be enough," he replied, keeping his eyes fixed ahead. Molly nodded, impressed that he had thought ahead more than her.
They made their way down two more corridors before reaching the door that led outside, near where Sherlock had fallen from the roof. Molly checked again that the coast was clear, and they snuck out into the fading dusk. Sherlock immediately turned east, away from the setting sun, and made his way to an alleyway across the street, stumbling a few times. Molly followed closely, surprised that hardly anyone was out and about. Maybe they had heard of the suicide earlier that day, and were avoiding the spot where it happened.
Molly, though she was surrounded by death every day, always felt a cold chill thinking about how people would take their own lives when there was so much good to live for every day. That's why she had been so shocked when Sherlock had asked for her help, and also partly because she couldn't understand any reason why Sherlock would want to kill himself. But she had a theory that Sherlock would only cause himself physical harm if any of his few friends were in danger. She wasn't sure, but she liked to count herself among the few people that Sherlock trusted the most that he was capable of trusting.
And if her theory was correct, it only served to remind Molly that he was actually human and not some brilliant yet heartless robot. And she needed the reassurance sometimes.
Molly was pulled from her thoughts as they entered the alley way, where Sherlock had stopped about 5 feet inside. He stooped down and started pulling aside several loose bricks, revealing a recess in the wall in which a canvas bag lay. He pulled the bag out, undid the zipper and held up a pair of faded jeans, a sweatshirt, a t-shirt, and a toboggan hat.
"Watch the entrance," he said, and proceeded to strip off the scrubs. Molly quickly turned around, her cheeks hot.
She watched the street, hearing him fumble a few times, and swear softly once, as he exchanged his clothing. When she heard him coming towards her on the crutch, she turned to face him. She had to blink a couple times to make sure it was actually Sherlock she was seeing. It was odd to see him in normal clothing, rather than in the immaculate suits he usually wore. He looked at least ten years younger, and the close fitting hat made his dark curls floof out from his head in a very adorable way, Molly thought. She smiled as he reached her at the mouth of the alley. He looked down at her curiously.
"Are you going to be staring at me all night, or are we going to get a cab?"
Molly's smile fell from her face as she sighed. Turning, she started down the street, searching for a cab and deliberately trying to ignore the man following in her wake. Sherlock, on his part, was growing increasingly confused by Molly's strange behavior. He attributed his confusion to the concussion, since Sherlock rarely ever let himself get confused.
About a block away from St. Bart's they managed to hail a cab, and soon found themselves seated awkwardly next to each other in the back. Molly gave the cabbie her address, and watched out the window as London raced by, trying to ignore the exciting fact that Sherlock would actually be staying with her. Her inner schoolgirl was gleeful.
Neither said a word to the other, Molly because she had suddenly regained her mouse-like tendencies now that they were in public, and Sherlock because after a certain case he was now always weary of cabbies and their possible benefactors.
Eventually, they arrived outside a small block of modest flats. Molly was thankful that she only lived on the second floor out of five, otherwise getting Sherlock into her flat would have been more of a hassle than it already was.
Turning the key, Molly opened the door to her home and flipped on the lights. Sherlock followed close behind, the hat pulled low over his eyebrows. From the kitchen came her cat, which mewed in greeting. Molly hung up her coat and turned to Sherlock.
"Um…make yourself at home I guess," she said, a little nervous. She watched him as his eyes roamed over her living room and her possessions, cataloging information on her, some of which she herself didn't even know. She could always tell when he was deducing something, and now that she was the subject again she felt anxious. She tried distracting herself.
"Are you hungry?" she asked, trying to play the hostess. "I could make some toast, or coffee...?"
"Thank you, Molly, coffee will do," he said, lowering himself onto the sofa a little less gracefully than he usually moved. At least his concussion had not affected his attempts at politeness, however hollow they were.
Heading to her little kitchen area, Molly paused to watch him set aside the crutch and relax into the cushions with a soft groan, setting his bad leg stretched out on her coffee table. He laid his head back and closed his eyes, sighing quietly.
With a small smile on her face, she went to the kitchen and set the timer on the coffee pot, her cat winding between her legs and purring up at her. Leaving that to brew, she made her way to her bedroom and retrieved her spare pillow and the extra quilt from her bed. Arms loaded, she entered her living room, expecting Sherlock to be ready to make known some kind of embarrassing observation he had made. Instead, she found him asleep, his head lolling to one side.
Her gaze softened, seeing the strain of the day etched on his tired face. She set down the spare pillow and quilt on one end of the sofa, and gently maneuvered Sherlock so he was lying down, being careful of his injured leg. He must have fallen deeply asleep quickly, because he didn't so much as twitch when she touched him.
"Oh, Sherlock," she wondered out loud, "Is this what John has to deal with whenever a case is solved? The inevitable crash?"
She adjusted him so he would be comfortable when he woke up, and then draped her quilt over his long body. His bad leg hung off the edge of the sofa, so she shifted her coffee table over to serve as a support for it.
Straightening, Molly crossed her arms, and observed Sherlock for a moment as he slept.
Not exactly the sleepover I imagined, she thought.
Molly suddenly felt the anxiety of the day weigh on her shoulders, could feel it in her bones. She rubbed her forehead to stop the oncoming headache.
What have I gotten myself into? she wondered wearily. She sighed, and went to the kitchen to reset the coffee pot for morning, and then to her own bed for a well-deserved sleep.
Love? Hate? CONTINUE?
^that''ll be my trademark now :)^
