Chapter 2: Danger Nights
A/N: I own none of these characters, unfortunately. They all belong to ACD, BBC, and Moftiss.
The return of Jim Moriarty meant that every night was a Danger Night for Molly Hooper, though not in the usual sense. She was too terrified that Jim would end up in her flat (or that he'd send one of his minions to do her in) that she was too scared to take even a painkiller for her headache, lest it dull her senses, let alone touch any sort of alcohol. It had been absolutely horrific, seeing his face on the telly in the break room that day, laughing grotesquely like some sort of marionette. Was he really back? Or was the image just that, a puppet being worked from off stage by some other sinister hand who wanted to hurt her and all those she held dear?
She had almost cried in relief when Sherlock had swept through her door, two men with suits and discrete ear pieces behind him. She hugged him, right there in her foyer, her arms going inside of his wool coat to wrap around his waist. She could smell the night air on his jacket and she squeezed him, breathing in the scent of him. To her surprise, he hugged her back, his fingers curling into her loose hair.
"Molly... I wasn't even gone for that long..."
"I didn't know when you would come home... Sherlock, I was so worried. Jim is back – of course you already know that – and I couldn't think what to do!" She was trying so hard not to cry, but the warmth and scent of him was about to push her over the edge. " I didn't know how to contact you, and I wondered if I should call Mycroft, but then I didn't want to bother him just because I'm a silly girl. "
Sherlock pulled away, his eyebrow raised.
"I see. The most dangerous mastermind London has ever seen returns from the dead, possibly threatening your safety, and you were worried about bothering Mycroft? Silly girl," he pulled her back to him and kissed her forehead, "always putting others before yourself, no matter how much they do not deserve it."
"You say that like it's a bad thing, Sherlock."
"It makes it easier for people to take advantage of you, Molly – and, for future reference, anything you do to bother Mycroft is a point in your favor." He released her abruptly, nodding to one of the men behind him. They moved past, into the living area, and started packing her books away into black bags. "We need to get your essentials packed up and move you to Baker Street as soon as possible. The faster we get there, the safer you'll be. It was agreed that until the threat of Jim Moriarty is no longer hanging over our heads, everyone will be safer back at Baker Street."
Molly nodded in assent. "I'll go and gather some clothes and necessities. Will you gather up Toby's things for me? You know where I keep the dry food at."
Sherlock rolled his eyes at her. "I said essentials, Molly. Must we bring that wretched thing?"
"Yes, we must. I'm not leaving Toby here alone. Jim was rather fond of him, if I remember, but then again, I thought he was rather fond of me too." The look on Sherlock's face was impassive, and she sighed. "If it really bothers you that much, I'll gather Toby's things and you can grab my toiletries and some clothes." He gave her a curt nod and disappeared into her bedroom and adjoining bath. She smirked to herself. She hoped that going through her underwear drawer made him uncomfortable. It would serve him right, being so mean to Toby all the time.
When they arrived at Baker Street around midnight, John and Mary were waiting for them on the couch. They stood up when Sherlock and Molly entered, Mary coming up to give Molly a hug. Mrs. Watson was late into her third trimester and looked absolutely dead on her feet.
"Mycroft's just left," she told Sherlock, who was letting Toby out of his carrier, "He said there was some sort of emergency meeting he had to attend." She stifled a yawn. John didn't even seem to notice, looking intently on the cat currently darting around the flat like some sort of crazed demon, making up for the car ride in the cramped carrier. He looked on the verge of speaking when Sherlock dropped Molly's bag and took the Watsons by the arms.
"John, take your pregnant wife upstairs to bed. She looks exhausted, and I will not have the health of the child put at risk because of a lack of sleep." He led them out into the corridor and shut the door, leaving Molly alone in the sitting area of 221B Baker Street.
The flat was cleaner than she remembered (there were no experiments flung about in the kitchen, or nicotine patches scattered across the living room floor). Sherlock's sheet music was neatly put away, not fluttering about, and his violin was in its case, not haphazardly lying somewhere like it usually was. It was strange, seeing the flat so neat. It looked like Sherlock had recently allowed Mrs. Hudson to tidy up a bit.
Molly set her bags down on the couch. She could hear the deep tones of Sherlock's voice out in the hall, mingled with the harried whispers of his former flat-mate, but she couldn't actually tell what they were saying. Whatever it was, John didn't seem happy. She sighed. If they were about to have a row, she was going to need some tea. Besides, her pajamas and dressing gown were in a bag that one of Mycroft's men had left downstairs, and she didn't want to interrupt the boys' conversation.
After setting up Toby's food bowl and litter, she went through mindless rhythm of preparing for tea for both herself and Sherlock, absently listening to the sounds around the flat – the ticking of a clock somewhere, a creak on the stair, the crackling of the fire in the living room. Sherlock's building was certainly older than hers, but she didn't mind. How could she with the lovely wooden floors and fireplace. She even loved the obnoxious wallpaper, yellow smiley and all. It was definitely a sort of eclectic look, but it somehow came together in the end.
When he walked into the door a minute later, her bags in tow, she was sitting in John's armchair with her feet curled up under her and a warm mug of tea in her hands.
"Thanks for bringing those up. I thought I heard you and John talking outside, so I didn't want to interrupt to get my bags." She nodded at the mug on the table next to his chair. "I made you some tea. Hopefully it's still hot. I made it a while ago, and I didn't know how long you'd be."
"Thank you." He dropped her bags by the others and came to sit across from her, grabbing his mug and taking a sip. She looked tired. Her face was pale in the flickering light of the fire, and her features drawn, but there was definitely a tension in the way she held her shoulders, something that registered in his mind as fear.
"Molly." Their eyes met, her brown gaze meeting his cool blue-green. "He won't hurt you." She was silent, staring at him blankly. "There are several layers of defense around this flat involving agents from Scotland Yard, the British Government, and reliably my homeless network. There is an army doctor and an expert marksman sleeping in the room upstairs. Moriarty would have to go through all of us to get to you. He won't be able to."
"You can't possibly know that." Her voice was calm and quiet. "I'm sure he knows all about our... association. I bet he knows that I helped you that day at Bart's, and that you stayed with me at my flat." She took a last sip from her mug, effectively breaking their eye contact, and stood up stretching. "I wouldn't be surprised if he knows everything about what happened after you faked your death." She grabbed the bag that held her clothes and toiletries. "I knew what I was getting into when I agreed to help you, Sherlock. I don't regret it. I'm more worried for Mary and the baby's safety than I am for my own." She turned around to look at him. "I'm going to brush my teeth and get into my pajamas. Will you find me some sheets and a spare blanket? I'll need to make up the couch when I'm finished."
He looked perplexed.
"Why would you need to make up the couch?"
"So I can eventually get to sleep?" She walked past, toward the bath, "some of us do have to sleep, you know, even while there are madmen running about." She closed the door behind her.
When she emerged from the bathroom, the fire was banked and the flat was dark. The only light in the room was coming from a lamp in Sherlock's room, coming through the half-open door. She could see him moving about in his room, tucking some books back onto their rightful shelves, straightening a picture frame on the nightstand as he passed by.
He looked up as she opened the door more fully.
"I still need the sheets for the couch, if that's alright. You forgot to leave them out for me." She was standing in the doorway, her hair loose and her legs bare underneath the over sized button down shirt. She thought she saw his eyes linger on her uncovered legs before he looked away again.
"You aren't sleeping on the couch. I've set up some of your things in here for you." Looking around she saw a few familiar items of hers – the faded picture of her mother on the bedside table next to her worn copy of Jane Eyre, her eyeglass case – set up where she would normally have them in her own room. "It would be ridiculous to insist you sleep on the couch. It's not as though we are unacquainted with sharing sleeping quarters, as you well know, and the bed is large enough for the both of us." He eyed her bare legs again. "I see I forgot your dressing gown. Very well, I shall lend you one tomorrow." He crossed over to the dresser, pulled out a pair of thick woolen socks, and tossed them to her. "It's the middle of winter, Molly. You really should be wearing more clothing."
She caught them mid-air and scowled, flopping herself on the bed next to a dozing Toby. The socks look hand knit and cushiony, and unlike anything Sherlock would normally purchase. Maybe they had been a gift?
"If I do recall, I am not the one who packed my night things. You were the one who conveniently forgot to pack my warm set of pajamas and slippers." She slipped beneath the sheets, warm socks and all, and started to do a quick braid in her hair.
Sherlock shrugged and shoved his hands in the pockets of his slacks.
"Yes, well, those tattered sheep things hardly count as slippers anymore, do they? And you never keep your dressing gown in the same place. You couldn't have expected me to find it in a hurry."
He watched her finish her braid and tie it off with a band from around her wrist.
"So..."
"So what, Sherlock?" She switched the table lamp off and hunkered deeper into the covers. "I'm tired, and I need to get some rest. Are you coming to bed then, or are you planning on staying up?" She could see him still standing beside the bed.
"Right. I'll be in the other room." He turned on his heel and left, closing the door beside him.
A few minutes later she heard the soft strains of the violin from the living room.
I am planning on writing more of this story! Lone Wolf Of The Gods requested that I write a bit more for this fic, and I'm definitely going to, but I felt like I needed to end the chapter here. Hopefully I'll have more up soon. Thank you for nowsusieq, emedealer, Empress of Verace, darthsydious, and Lone Wolf for reviewing first chapter :)
Thank you for reading, and for taking the time to REVIEW :)