A/N: Warning for mentions of drug use and Sherlock being a total ass.

This story will be a time travel fic where Molly Hooper ends up in the Victorian era with the modern-day Sherlock's Victorian ancestor and lookalike.


Kill The Buzzing Of My Brain (Summer 2008)

Molly is introduced to DI Greg Lestrade, Sherlock's main contact at the Met, the man he does the most consulting for. When, one day, Sherlock rushes out of the morgue on some mysterious errand or other, his eyes wild and hair nearly standing on end from him raking his fingers through it, the detective inspector turns to her and, out of the blue, declares: "I think I can trust you to be discreet about this, yeah, Dr. Hooper?"

"Molly," she says automatically, her eyes still on the doors to the morgue as she tries to puzzle out Sherlock's unusually manic exit. Something has been off about him for some time now, she is just beginning to realize, only there is always something off about Sherlock in general so she hasn't actually paid very close attention to the odd shifts in his behaviour since the beginning of summer. "Be discreet about what, Detective Inspector?" she asks, making a deliberate effort to keep her mind on the conversation at hand and not her vague worries about a man who still seems to barely tolerate her in spite of her efforts to get to know him better...and to give him the opportunity to get to know her better as well.

An opportunity he has yet to take advantage of. And after DI Lestrade confides his suspicions to her, she wonders if the reason fate or whoever has given her her glimpses into the future is because she isn't meant to connect to Sherlock romantically, as she's always hoped, but in more of a caretaking capacity.

"I think he's on something."

"Oh, he's onto something about the case? That's great, that's fan..." Molly falls silent as she realizes she has misheard what Lestrade was saying, sees the gravity in his eyes as he corrects her.

She stares at him, disconcerted and suddenly at a loss for words. Sherlock, taking drugs? Risking that beautiful, brilliant mind of his for something so ridiculously dangerous? She shakes her head in denial, but Lestrade must read something in her expression that speaks to his own suspicions, because he presses her on it. "You think so, too."

"N-no, he wouldn't...he would never do something that might affect his mind!" she blurts out, but as soon as she says it she knows she's wrong – and that DI Lestrade is right.

"Look, Dr. Hoop – Molly," he corrects himself. "I've known Sherlock for a couple of years now, and one thing I can tell you is that the only reason he would take anything would be because of his mind. Not to hurt it, per se, but to try and shut it down once in a while. Only lately, it seems he's gone from occasional user to, well, addict, not to put too fine a point on it. Do you know why I'm sharing this with you?"

She blinks and stares at him. "Because you know I won't say anything to anyone?" she hazards, although how a man she's just met might understand how trustworthy she is is beyond her. Well, if he were Sherlock Holmes he might be able to ascertain that fact about her personality, but she suspects there aren't very many people in the world whose minds function at the same level as Sherlock's...and no matter how intelligent, no matter how likeable, she doubts DI Lestrade is at that same level of brilliance.

He starts to shake his head, then pauses and nods instead. "That's part of it, yeah. But the reason I know you won't tell anyone something said to you in confidence," he adds, as if he has read her mind, "is because Sherlock trusts you."

She stares at him. "Really? That's...nice." Nice and completely unexpected. It is a truth that Sherlock himself will not share with her for another two years and under vastly different circumstances, although it will happen in this very building.

Lestrade goes on, "The thing is, I've been willing to turn a blind eye when it was only now and again, but it's been more and more frequently and frankly, if he doesn't straighten up I'm not going to be able to use him as a consultant anymore."

Molly gasps and immediately puts her hand over her mouth, eyes wide as she considers the implications of what Lestrade has just said. She and Sherlock have shared only a handful of actual conversations since she first met him in January, but one thing she does know about him is how important the work is to him. If he were no longer allowed to consult on Scotland Yard cases, if all he had to occupy his ferocious intellect were the occasional private cases he's mentioned – dismissively and with a great deal of contempt for the most part – she has absolutely no idea how he would react, or what it would do to him.

She blurts out her feelings to Lestrade, who nods agreement with her as she trails off. "Yeah, I know. Thing is, if I say something to him he'll just deny it, find some way to talk rings around me and ignore whatever I have to say on the subject. What the hell do I know, I'm just a copper, right?" His lips twist in a wry smile, and Molly understands that he is more like her than she would have thought; he tries not to take Sherlock's sometimes hurtful words personally, understanding that it is simply who the man is. That his mind works on a completely different level to theirs, and that he is, quite frankly, about as socially inept as a toddler unless he makes a special effort not to be. Which he rarely does.

"Honestly, Inspector Lestrade, I don't think he'll listen to me any better than you," Molly admits with a sad smile of her own. "You may be just a copper, but most of the time I don't think he even realizes I'm a human being."

Lestrade shakes his head firmly. "Oh, he knows you're a human being, Molly – and call me Greg, yeah? At least when it's just us talking about Sherlock behind his back," he adds with a self-deprecating grin. "He doesn't have a lot of people in his life he can trust – if you asked, he'd probably tell you he doesn't have friends at all, but I'm hoping one day he'll discover that not only are the rest of us human beings, but he is, too. And I'm not asking you to confront him, just...keep an eye on him, if you don't mind? I know he works with you more than the other pathologists, and I know you get on with him about as well as anyone can. If he ever seems to...I dunno, cross a line, or need help, just let me know." He presses his card into her hands and she nods and accepts it, slipping it into her trouser pocket so she doesn't accidentally leave it behind at the end of her shift.

When Sherlock returns she is busy putting the body he and Lestrade had come to examine back into its refrigerated storage compartment, and Lestrade is on his mobile. However, as soon as Molly turns to face Sherlock, her bright smile falters. Sherlock's eyes are narrowed, and he is darting his glance back and forth between the two of them, the very picture of suspicion. She tries to ignore the feeling that she's somehow betrayed him by listening to what Greg had to say and agreeing with it, but is certain that the guilt she is feeling is as plain to Sherlock as if she had the conversation inked on her forehead.

When the detective inspector asks Sherlock if he's ready to go, he waves the other man off, spouts out his deductions about the case – which prove to be spot on, Molly later learns – and tells Lestrade he has some unfinished business to see to at the hospital. Lestrade hesitates, gives Molly a sympathetic look, then heads through the doors.

Leaving the two of them, Molly and Sherlock, alone.

Molly starts to say something, but Sherlock cuts her off with an even darker frown. "I don't know what Lestrade said to you, but I can guess," he says with heavy sarcasm. The word isn't one he uses in reference to himself, ever. Another sign he isn't quite himself, or merely his obvious temper leading to imprecision in language he usually avoids? "He's worried about me, and he wants you to be worried about me as well, to keep an eye on me and go tattling off to him if you see any signs of me losing control or going over the edge, is that it?"

He is trying to intimidate her, and doing a damned good job of it, too, but Molly somehow finds the internal fortitude to stand up to him. She straightens her shoulders, looks him squarely in the eye and says: "Yes. That's exactly it."

He looks taken aback, as if he wasn't expecting her to admit it, and she uses his momentary hesitation to plunge ahead with what she now realizes she wants – no, has – to say to him. "I'm worried, too, Sherlock. You haven't been...haven't been yourself lately. And no, I don't know you well enough to say that, but I'm saying it anyway. Because I care."

Wrong thing to say, she realizes as soon as the word leaves her mouth. He draws back, lip curled in disdain and unleashes on her. "Oh, you care, how nice, how lovely," he says, voice dripping venom. "You're worried about me. You've known me less than ten months, Dr. Hooper, and I would appreciate it if you would kindly keep your feelings to yourself in future. I can take care of myself, and you and Lestrade need to stay out of my personal business as ours is a strictly professional relationship – if you can call our occasional interactions even that much. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a case to solve."

Then he turns and stalks out of the morgue, leaving Molly trembling and on the verge of tears – not so much because of his hurtful words, but because she realizes he really is in trouble, and absolutely unwilling to accept any kind of help, from her or anyone else. Sherlock Holmes, she realizes with an ache in her heart, will follow his current path until he is good and ready to see it for the trap it is...or until it kills him.