Thank you for the interest! (As for the 'smirk', I simply alluded to Moriarty's remark in RF, smth. like 'it's so boring, staying alive.' My Sherlock is struggling to process the recent dramatic events, without actually being aware of this...)

Disclaimer. 'Roberto Zucco' by Bernard-Marie Coltes, the version of the ADC theatre in Cambridge.

...

The good thing about Sherlock Holmes was that he didn't expect anyone in his proximity indulge himself or herself in casual small talk. Quite on the contrary, Sherlock Holmes strongly preferred silence and merely acknowledged somebody's presence when he himself needed it. And Molly Hooper was probably the only person who could appreciate Holmes' style of communication, albeit for improper reasons. Every time she felt someone was approaching her for a babble, the familiar despair befell her. She stammered, missed her turn, gave inappropriate answers. In the end, people adressed her but in urgent cases, only to spare her (and themselves) the embarrasment.

Sherlock Holmes came to the mortuary and didn't say a word for days, although she was present most of the time (and he only had access to the lab during her evening and night shifts). With him, she was absolutely sure he wasn't pretending, he actually didn't see her, engrossed by his current research. It gave her an unexpected sense of freedom. She wasn't being ignored, she was invisible. She watched him from behind her text book (the second year forensic pathology), hovering around the place, impeccably elegant, ephemerical, unwordly beautiful. At times, she couldn't shake off the impression it was a ghost who had returned to investigate his own death, and giggled.

Sherlock Holmes was the only person as weird as she was, if not weirder; he was as hopeless in social situations as she was, despite his astounding intellect and eloquence. They met each other in the mortuary where she reigned over corpses Sherlock Holmes needed for his inquiries. This made perfect sense.

...She dreamt of the merciless cold, of the marble, unresponding body under her desperate, incessantly moving hands, her fingers going numb; of being just in time. Of being so happy it hurt.

...

The flimsy slot gave in without effort (the slot was not meant to protect, and Sherlock was basically hiding in the plain sight). She sneaked inside noiselessly, in case Sherlock was sleeping.

He wasn't. Instead, he sat curled up on the couch, his navy blue satin robe strayed around him, with the laptop on his knees and didn't look up. Hesitatingly, Molly took this as a good sign, as this was the normal course of the most of her previous visits. She would go to the kitchen now and set a couple of large coffee cans she had brought along one day. While working, Sherlock Holmes consumed all the coffee he eventually came accross somewhere (usually in his kitchen), but he never bothered to set coffee himself.

Sherlock Holmes marched into the kitchen with the sneery air of a bored aristocrat in charge of a major military campaign. He briefly leaned over Molly Hooper's shoulder with an absent look, hands behind his back.

'Coffee,' he stated.

'A cup of coffee? Black, two sugars?'

'Yes, thank you,' Sherlock said, making himself comfortable on the kitchen stool. Straddling it betwen his monstruously long legs in pyjamas, wringing his bare slender feet in unbelievable angles under the chair, which came to look really tiny.

'So, how was the show?' he asked finally.

Molly's hand froze in the air. 'What?' She had thought about the show a lot, but she definitely didn't expect Sherlock Holmes would bring it up.

'It was - good - it was very good - I guess,' she hated herself for being so lame-tongued, as usual.

Suddenly, Sherlock broke out in a terse breathless recite, his voice ironically pitching at necessary places: 'Based on an infamous true story, Roberto Zucco concerns a charismatic serial murderer — a young, lost soul who philosophically seduces his prey, driven by forces he can't control.' Molly turned around, gasping. Sherlock grinned at her: 'Is that it, Molly?'

Molly shook her head in disbelief: 'Did you - did you see it, too?'

Sherlock's mouth cringed disdainfully: 'Oh for goodness' sake, Molly. I keep myself to the facts. Obviously, I haved studied the Roberto Zucco case in some detail, besides the numerous others.

Adressing an imaginary audience, he spewed another tirade: 'It's a cruel play, but it's also syrupy sweet at times, proof that Koltes felt sentiment and forgiveness - ' He interrupted himself, turning abruptly to Molly: 'Wrong! This Koltes is wrong, and you are wrong if you believe this. Roberto Zucco was not a sleazy spineless figure catering to public sentiment. I assure you, Roberto Zucco didn't need sentiment nor forgiveness. '

Molly's cheeks glowed fiercelly, she wanted nothing less than to discuss this further. Nevertheless, she murmured: 'Maybe he only didn't know he needed it - '

Holmes had jumped on his feet and now towered over her, his lips and eyes a thin line.

'Oh that's how you squeeze things you don't understand into your cosy little world. You glue everything together with a sentiment and think it actually fits in. You want everything make sense so badly. Some things just don't fit in! Anywhere! Villains! Heroes! No. Some people just don't fit in - ' There was something contradictory to this she failed to put her finger on with Sherlock's intense stare on her. She thought she could see an unbearable strain in his gaze, as well as exhaustion, and her hearth skipped a beat, as always, when she sensed something was wrong, something was wrong with him.

Meanwhile, Holmes had returned to the table, calmed down, splayed his hands over the surface. 'You asked me how long this would take, remember?' She nodded.

The tall man joined his lean musician's fingers under the chin and wiggled them thoughtfully. 'Listen. Over fifteen days - there will be an escape from -,' he paused. 'The name of the location is irrelevant. There is virtually no chance you will ever hear of it, as officially it doesn't exist, and the semi-official rumours are all intentionally wrong. However, this name you will hear a lot in your - our - near future. Sebastian Moran. He will pay his respect to me as soon as possible. If only to make some inquiries about his late master.'

'And I thought you were dead. To everyone.' Molly's lips moved nearly without her consent. She was mesmerized by Sherlock's closed eyes, and the shadows his eyelashes were throwing on the pale cheekbones.

'Oh, Mr. Moran does not know yet he's coming to see me. And when he does - ' a dreamy smile on his lips did not match the menacing innuendo of his words. 'He will also be probably thrilled to thank me for organizing his escape. Probably.'