Sherlock: The Blue Phone Rang

"I'm very glad you came, Molly."

"Oh, you know, anything to take my mind of work, you know?"

John smiled knowingly at Molly, who sat in Sherlock's old chair, sipping from a teacup John had actually washed for the occasion. Her eyes lingered on the skull on the shelf and she seemed to frown. "I used to know him, you know."

John's eyes darted between Molly and the skull with unusual speed as he leaned forward slightly. "Wait, are you serious?"

"Yeah, he was nice. Worked in the office at the morgue, some sort of accountant. He always remembered my birthday, always, brought me daisies and a coffee. I think he was lonely – never wore a wedding ring," Molly sipped away.

"Oh my…" Watson shook his head and mumbled under his breath. "I am so sorry, should I take it down?" He moved to stand up-

"No, no, it's fine! He um… he died in a house fire. I performed the autopsy."

"That's terrible, Molly, I'm very, very sorry."

"It wasn't that bad a death – smoke inhalation got him before the flames ever touched him. Still asleep in his bed. Can't ask for a more peaceful death than that, can you?" She went to take another sip, forgetting that she'd already finished it off a second before. She settled the cup and saucer down on her lap awkwardly.

"Yes. Yeah, yeah," Watson quickly agreed as settled back into his chair, "Still, I'm sorry – what was his name?"

"Fredrick Ballister. But everybody called him Freddy."

"Freddy," Watson shook his head with a bemused smile on his face as he looked upwards at the skull with new eyes. "How in the world – and why? – did Sherlock ever get a hold of his…" he tried to tread lightly. "…skull?"

Molly heard the stutter in John's voice before he said his friend's name. Even after three months, thinking about him hadn't gotten any easier. Just thinking about what a lie she was living, sitting there in his chair, letting him think about Sherlock the way he was thinking, allowing his pain to continue, she almost dropped the teacup right there. But she pressed on:

"Freddy donated his body to science. Sherlock said he needed a head for an experiment… you know how he was…"

That got a small chuckle out of John who was leaning on his hand as he listened. "… and he, what? Just decided to keep it?"

"Well, no family ever came for the body, so…" Molly shrugged. "Sherlock just sort of adopted him. I think Freddy wouldn't have minded anyways. He was really good natured, you know."

John raised an eyebrow and offered to refill her cup. "I think this goes beyond 'good natured'." He stood and took the skull off the shelf and stared into it's empty eye sockets for a moment before offering it to her. "Would you take it for me?"

Molly naturally recoiled just a bit from the skull, but more from the look in John's eye. "Why would I take it?"

"I have a feeling it's going to need a new flatmate, considering this one is going to be gone by the end of the week," John stated bluntly. "I just can't cope anymore, Molly. I can't cope with living alone in this apartment meant for two people, filled with things for two people, filled with his things."

"We could pack them-" she began.

"No, Molly, I'm sorry, but I just can't take it anymore. I've had enough. I've already applied for a post in Bath at a very well-reputed hospital, and that's it." He spread his hands as he said the last, as if to sum up everything and put an end to the discussion, which had been practically one sided.

She set the saucer aside and stood. "What about Mrs. Hudson?"

"Oh, didn't you hear? She has a new boyfriend. Mhm, and she's moving on just fine," John practically yelled. "And that is exactly what I intend to do! I'm just going to go, and, and, and try to forget this whole affair."

"But you can't just forget!"

"Can't I?" He moaned and closed his eyes as he pinched his nose in frustration, but also to cover the tears threatening to push their way out. "You know, I-" he stopped and gathered himself, then sunk into the chair again. "I don't want to forget, Molly, but I have to, you understand? I have been driving myself crazy." He stood to cross the room, and Molly noted with despair that he was slightly limping. "And I called you here because I think that you're the only one of his friends who actually believes that he was not a fake." His voice broke at the end of the sentence, and the sound jerked a tear into her eye. "And I knew that you care, and I just wanted to see if there was anything you wanted before I…" he trailed off with a sigh and his shoulders sagged.

"John, please don't go," she found herself saying. She wished she could just break it all to him. She wished she could drag him out of this dark corner he'd been living in. She wished she could tell him the truth. She wished she could bring Sherlock home with a "Surprise!" and a smile. She wished none of this had ever happened. She wished he knew that this torture was killing Sherlock as much as it was killing him. For a moment, she almost did. "Sherlock isn't dead," was right on the tip of her tongue.

"I'm sorry, Molly." John limped back towards her and put the skull in her hand. "Take care of Freddy. And take care of yourself." He touched her shoulder gently and tried to smile. "You're welcome to anything you like. And text me if you need anything. Anything, Molly. But I am leaving."

She was staring down at Freddy's pallid skull when she heard the squeaking stairs echo John's footsteps, then the opening of the door as he left.

John turned his coat up against the cold weather as he flung the door to 221B wide open, but didn't step out. The face that greeted him looked about as surprised as he did, standing on the threshold. "This the residence of Sherlock Holmes?"

John looked the man up and down as he forced down the emotions raging around inside his head. "No, he's dead," was the statement he could muster.

The man shifted on his feet and extended a parcel. "Well I've got a delivery for him. You a friend?"

Watson eyed the package warily, but did not take it. "I was… who are you?" he certainly didn't look like a mailman.

The stranger pushed his burden into John's arms and backed up. "She just said to deliver the package, and that's what I'm doing. I'm not gettin' involved."

"Just wait a second, who are you!" John took a step out of the apartment and the mystery man fled. He would have given chase, but his leg prohibited him. "I'm with the police!" he tried, but the delivery man didn't stop for a moment. He turned round the corner and that was the last he saw of him. "Sort of," he added lamely.

The package was heavy but flexible, and it's rectangular shape led him to believe it was a book. As he ripped off the envelope, his theory was validated. And The Blue Phone Rang by Meredith Hale. It seemed to Watson to be your typical mystery novel – the cover depicted a long, white hand extending from the right hand of the cover for an old fashioned telephone smack in the middle, painted blue. It was one of those telephones with the rotating disk for dialing, and it was caked in a thin layer of dirt around the edge, as if it'd been dug up. A shiver ran down his spine as he looked at the hand; it looked almost exactly like the spindly, pale fingers he'd watched at work in a hundred crime scenes. But no – the fingertips were painted a pale shade of red that was chipping and cracked and stood blatantly out against the grey background. A woman's hands. His mind was getting the better of him…. again.

He flipped open to the first page, and the dedication made his blood run icy.

To John:

Answer the phone.

He yelped when his mobile buzzed in his pocket and dropped the book. When he extracted it from his jacket, the caller I.D. stated the caller as UNKNOWN. He slid to answer it. "Who is this?"

Dr. Watson, I presume? A calculated voice seeped through the speaker, but he could be sure it was a woman.

He glanced back down at the title. "Meredith Hale?"

There was a pause. Correct.

"Who the hell are you?"

Being antagonistic is understandable but unnecessary, Dr. Watson, I'm calling you as a… friend.

"Well, you're a very creepy and suspicious friend, if you don't mind me saying. What do you want?"

I just called to give you a piece of information you might find interesting.

Watson chuckled as he flipped through the five hundred pages in his hands. "Yeah, so you decided to write a novel? Don't you have texting? It's a lot less time consuming."

Sherlock is alive.

Watson felt his breath being sucked away like he'd suddenly been thrown into outer space. "Is this some kind of practical joke?" he managed to say, but he felt like throwing the book in the street and maybe the phone along with it.

There was a sigh on the other end. John, read the book. And cancel your plans in Bath.

"How in the world do you know about that? Why should I believe you?"

Because you want to. The phone disconnected.