AN: Hi. This is a straight up filler chapter. Sorry.
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It was still fairly dark at six o' clock in the morning. The sky was less than partially clear, splotches of sparkling navy and the soupy glow of twilight creeping in through the heavy clouds. London, however, continued to sleep for no one, Molly Hooper included.
When she woke and dressed in day-before clothing, she emerged from her temporary room and trudged downstairs, back aching. She entertained the idea of bypassing 221B entirely and making an escape downstairs through the front door, and she made the attempt; however, there was a note taped beside the handle covered in familiar scrawl.
'Molly,
Stay until I return. Help yourself to what's in the fridge.
I advise that you keep to the left.
-SH'
It was six in the morning, when the hell did he leave?
Molly stared blurry eyed at the note, ripping it off the door. Ignoring it seemed like a good idea, or she could march back upstairs and get another hour of rest. She rubbed her face with her hands and felt oily and grimy and made the decision that a shower really would be outstanding. The prospect felt a little less uncomfortable with Sherlock out of the flat and sparing her from his brand of scrutiny, and it really wasn't the most important thing to be worrying about in light of the massive Haul-All-or-Nothing burglary of her entire home.
She dragged her feet towards the bathroom when she heard the cooing little meow.
Molly spun on her heels, rushing to the sitting room and searching around frantically, sure that she was going out of her mind until she spied, in Sherlock's chair, Toby licking himself and seeming perfectly at ease.
Molly gave a little cry and scooped him up, pressing her face into his fur and collapsing into the chair. "Oh, Toby! I thought I would never see you again!"
She sat there for nearly ten minutes with the startled cat before composing herself. Then she sat another ten minutes trying to understand how he had gotten there. The only thing she could think of was that Sherlock had found him, sometime, very, very, early in the morning.
Just where was he?
Actually searching for the thief, or thieves, on her behalf?
By the time Molly was finished squeezing the life out of her precious cat and trying hard not to think about his lack of a litter box, a shower was had. And there was something to be said about the grimy feeling of dirty clothes after a refreshing shower.
After opening the refrigerator to see what was inside (out of either hunger or morbid curiosity), Molly looked to the right and choked on a bubble of laughter at the jar of carpals, metacarpals, and phalanges as if Sherlock was planning on constructing a hand for the skull on the mantelpiece. There was also a wrapped up white paper bag with writing atop it that said 'LIVER (HUMAN – DO NOT EAT)'.
At seven in the morning, Molly phoned Mike Stamford.
"Already got notice that you'd be out a couple days," Mike had said affably. "No worries, we got someone from Kings to fill in for you. You work on getting yourself sorted."
Molly was getting an idea as to the informant, but she still had doubts. "Who told you?"
"Sherlock."
At eight in the morning, Molly was pacing the flat under the indifferent gaze of her feline when Mrs. Hudson let herself in with a happy knock. In her hands was a tray of tea and biscuits which she placed carefully on an end table. "I normally bring tea up a little earlier in the morning, but Sherlock seemed to think you'd sleep in a bit longer. I hope you'll help yourself."
Genuinely surprised, Molly couldn't help but ask the older woman to stay and join her.
They were soon sitting across one another.
"Such a dreadful thing, what happened to you. But you know our Sherlock, he'll have it sorted in no time, I'm sure. Woke me up bloody early when he left." Mrs. Hudson huffed good-naturedly. "In the meantime, I hope you enjoy it here, but you won't find much peace with the way he can carry on sometimes. Between you and me though, the violin playing is sometimes worth it." Mrs. Hudson nodded once, smile still reaching her eyes.
Molly stirred her tea, sitting quite straight in Sherlock's chair. "Oh, I'm not staying long, I swear. I need to find a place to go at least by tomorrow, actually."
Mrs. Hudson shook her head thoughtfully puzzled. "That's not what Sherlock told me. Said you'd be staying at least a couple months."
Somehow the tea in Molly's mouth didn't quite make its way down her throat, but she did manage to cough it back into her cup. "Months?" she hacked.
"Oh," Mrs. Hudson said chagrined, "Maybe he's lonelier than I thought? I shouldn't have said anything."
"No, no, it's fine. I'll talk to him," Molly waved it off only enough to let it linger in the back of her mind.
"He's just been living alone for so long now, ever since he came back," Mrs. Hudson continued, "Sometimes I come up and play a board game with him, but you know how he is, I can't always stay for too long for my mental health. And really, he's usually gone anyway on a case or at the hospital."
"Right."
"And I think I might be convinced that he's not actually gay, but there's no sign of a woman. Not since that awful thing with that young lady. Do you remember the tabloids on that?" Mrs. Hudson sipped her tea, scandalous.
A smile struggled its way on Molly's face. Oh yes. She remembered that. She didn't believe a word of it; they were tabloids after all, but she slowly had come to realize that she wouldn't put it past Sherlock to do to Janine what she'd heard had been done. And while John filled her in, it was Sherlock who hadn't wanted to speak a word of it. 'It was for a case,' he had said. Molly still found herself suffocating with empathy. A fake relationship, however brief, was a hurtful betrayal she had experienced before.
She and Tom had broken things off only just before the news reached her, at a time when she'd still been holding a candle for Sherlock Holmes.
And Janine, through no fault of her own, had been the breeze that extinguished it.
Sherlock could do a lot of damage when he wasn't trying; he could accomplish devastation when he was, so it went without saying that if Molly still had it in her to put her heart in his hands, he'd either step on it by accident, which happened plenty of times in the past, or he'd shatter it deliberately like the test tube against the lab's pristine wall. So when she was finally able to pull it back into the safe enclosure of her chest cavity, Molly felt rather secure.
Breathing was easier. Living life was easier.
Or it would be if she hadn't just been severely burgled.
"Molly, dear?" Mrs. Hudson called. "Are you alright? You started drifting off a bit, there."
"Sorry," Molly shook her head of the sudden cobwebs. "I guess I'm distracted. I've got to make phone calls and pick up some clothes that aren't, you know, just these."
Mrs. Hudson just smiled sympathetically at her.
Molly then remembered to say, "I also wanted to thank you for cleaning up John's old room."
The smile wilted into confusion. "I haven't been up there in ages."
Molly stared at her quizzically before shaking it off. She'd think about it later.
After easy conversation, and maybe a little bit of rambling on Mrs. Hudson's part before she departed, Molly set to the task of contacting her insurance. She also left several messages for the property manager of her building, but it seemed he was out for a bit. Not that it was particularly necessary that she do so, as New Scotland Yard had made the attempt the night before.
After nearly an hour of lazing around the flat with no sign of Sherlock, she attempted to call the manager again.
No answer.
She was about to convert cardboard laptop packaging she'd found into a catbox until she remembered there was no litter.
"Oh, sod this," she muttered before grabbing her bag and preparing to leave the flat.
She'd made it to the last step with her coat half-way on when her mobile ringed. She glanced at the screen before answering. "Greg?"
"Molly, get a cab and come down to the station. We've got him," Lestrade said, though he didn't sound too happy. There was a rumbling protest barely made out in the background before he added, "Fine, whatever, Sherlock got him. Will you get here as soon as you can?"
"I-"
"Do you need me to send a car? I can send a car."
"No," Molly squeaked. "I'll catch a cab. I'll be there soon."
The call ended. Molly breathed deeply, thinking, they got him! They got him! Thank you, Sherlock! But somehow it felt too soon to celebrate. Something was still amiss if the tone of Lestrade was anything to go by. Perhaps Sherlock was simply giving him a harder time than usual and was beyond eager for a reprieve. Or not.
No. She could sense the bad news. It was heavy and thick and impending, like a toothache and going to see the dentist. You haven't gotten the diagnosis, but you know it's going to be a cavity.
When Molly arrived at the front desk, it was Sherlock who was waiting for her, tapping away at his mobile beneath the bright fluorescent lighting that bounced off the gray polish of the concrete floors.
"Molly, glad you could make it," he spoke like he was greeting guests for a party, if Sherlock Holmes ever attended parties. Or greeted people at them. He looked up at her, smiled vaingloriously, and pocketed his phone. "Turns out you already know your thief. Well, you've met him, anyway. Signed a contract with him, in fact."
"Who is it?"
"Michael Morris Allsworth. Also known as your property manager."
"Oh, god." Molly covered her face with her hands.
"And manage your property he did."
"Oh, god." She sank into the nearest seat against the wall. A passing policeman tossed her a sympathetic look, but whether it was because he was privy to her plight or because she was so fortunate to be conversing with Sherlock Holmes, she didn't know. It might have been her attire, if she stopped to think on it.
"Where's Greg?" She asked wearily.
"Who?"
Molly shut her eyes tight. "I'm really not in the mood right now, Sherlock. Just-"
"-He's getting him to cooperate," he said, finally serious, maybe apologetic. "I did what I could, and once he broke down, Lestrade swooped in to take care of the details. Do you want me to – Would you prefer I take you to see him?"
Molly stared at the shiny floor for a moment before answering. "No. I'll wait till' he's done."
"Right." Sherlock, still standing, placed his hands behind his back and rocked on his heels. "Well, it might be a while, seeing as he'll be questioning Allsworth's accomplice again, so..."
"His accomplice?"
Sherlock nodded down with a hum of confirmation.
"I'm afraid you may have left that bit out," Molly said.
Taking the prompt, Sherlock explained. "The man cleared out an entire flat, very quickly and quietly, leaving no damage. Like I said last night, it was professional. It was obvious he had an accomplice and even more obvious that said accomplice is his brother, Jack Allsworth, owner and operator of-"
"-A moving service."
"Allsworth Moving Company." Sherlock stared at her and his eyes softened. He dropped into the chair next to her and they listened to the sounds of the police going about their duties.
Molly asked quietly, "So then, where is it all? The things they stole?"
Sherlock didn't answer. He stared at the ground contemplatively before directing his attention back to her and Molly felt her stomach drop yet again at the look in his eyes. She made a mistake in getting her hopes too high. Because now they were going to sink and crash right back to the ground, she knew it.
He opened his mouth to give her the straight, dreadful truth, and was abruptly cut off by a door swinging open and slamming shut and Lestrade striding across the room towards them.
"Well?" Sherlock rose from his seat, as did Molly, who couldn't help but notice Lestrade's prominent frown lines. Poor man looked as though he hadn't had a decent sleep, but he still had the presence of mind to give her a smile, albeit a tired one.
"They've got the same story," Lestrade said. "They parked the truck behind the company building and when they went back to move it this morning, it was empty."
"And the lock? Same story?"
"They found it locked back up the way it was."
"Terribly cooperative criminal idiots, aren't they?" said Sherlock. "Indicates they're scared, so they haven't been up to this scheme for long. Suddenly desperate for money. Still. Best you look into any other recent burglaries of a similar nature, as he had more than one building under his charge."
Molly groaned into her hand. "So let me get this all straight," she said, rubbing fiercely at her eyes and grabbing their attentions. "My property manager and his brother hatched an elaborate plan-"
"Hardly elaborate," Sherlock quipped.
"-a plan to break into my home, take everything down to a stale bag of crisps, leave it all in the back of a car park, and ended up with everything stolen – from thieves – by thieves."
Ah, London.
"Yes," answered Sherlock.
Molly looked at him with a hopelessly hopeful expression. He swallowed.
"I, um, I don't know who. Not yet." A reluctant admission. And if Sherlock had managed to catch the first tier of this ridiculous charade, but not the second, she wasn't sure he would. Whether because he couldn't (highly doubtful), or because the inevitable boredom would creep in, didn't matter. The words not yet echoed dully and disintegrated like a hollow platitude.
The rest of the morning was a slow blur. She was asked to sign documents in order to file charges. She didn't read any of them. She supposed her comprehension would have suffered greatly if she made the attempt in her state, as simply finding the correct signature line seemed a trial, indicated by the way Sherlock would nudge her hand to the correct placement on the page.
"On the bright side you no longer have to worry about your lease," Sherlock said as they left the station, enveloped in the light that struggled through a gray covered sky. Molly scowled.
"How is that the bright side?" she countered, kicking an innocent pebble into the road as they ambled down the street. "I liked my lease. I was only two months into it."
"But you'll not be going back."
Molly sighed. He was right after all. "No. There'll be someone new to manage the place, sure, but I guess I wouldn't be comfortable there anymore. Not when I can still see everything that used to be there when it's not."
Sherlock spoke the words "You can stay at Baker Street" at the same time that Molly said "I'll have to find a new place", which was followed by an incredibly awkward pause where they both looked away, halted on the sidewalk.
"This is ridiculous," Sherlock said. "I keep trying to tell you that there's space available. That you are ...welcome. As long as you like."
"Why are you being nice to me?" Molly asked heavily, a little resigned, a little suspicious, as she resumed her previously steady pace. Sherlock walked beside her, hands stuffed deep into the pockets of his coat.
"I've been told that's what friends should do," he said with a measure of uncertainty.
"Really."
"And - yes, really, thank you," he sniffed. "And because I still feel that I ...owe you. I know I do. And I want to – help, that is."
Sherlock certainly seemed the type who didn't like leaving favors unpaid, even if she had told him before that her hand in his death -and the lab work- was free of charge. It didn't come as a surprise. "I'm not moving in with you." Molly said. "It's just temporary. I'll get myself sorted soon enough and you'll have your flat back all to yourself, yeah?"
"Like I said, as long as you like."
Molly hummed, peering at Sherlock from the corner of her eye. There was a moment of uncertainty. She considered backing out, throwing money at a hotel for up to a month until she found a new place to house up in. Then she remembered the general cost of a decent hotel in London and quickly changed her mind.
She remembered the new toothbrush that was now hers, sitting in the bathroom behind the medicine cabinet next to Sherlock's. She didn't necessarily feel a romantic rush of affection at that; more along the lines of grateful companionship. Comfort. Perhaps it was a friendship that went from something abstract and indiscernible, turning a little more clear, a little more defined every day, like the focus over a slide in a microscope.
Had to be that. Otherwise, she'd have to reconsider Sherlock's offer again, backing away and cramming her heart safely back into the cage of her chest from where it fluttered. She would be back to considering the hotel again, or maybe a co-worker's couch or something equally indifferent.
Lord knows her family, such as they are, would never be an option. Molly hadn't heard a word from her mother in ten years since her dad died and it would be ten years too soon if she did now.
"Well," Molly slapped her hands together. "If you're going to be boarding Toby and me for a bit, I should pick up some kitty litter, don't you think? Unless you've got it in for a potted plant."
By the look on Sherlock's face, it was obvious the thought had slipped his racing fast mind. "Ah."
"Mrs. Hudson didn't seem to mind the cat. She came in with tea this morning."
"Mrs. Hudson rents me a flat. I shouldn't think a cat would be much more destructive than myself. Though I did promise not to shoot the walls again."
"You shoot the walls?"
"I just said, not anymore."
"Huh." Molly thought on that for a moment. Sherlock Holmes making concessions? Perhaps she was more surprised than she should be, given his revised behavior of late. Sherlock peered at her for a moment as they walked.
"Chips first?" he asked.
No engagement to excuse myself this time, Molly thought. "Sure," she said. "You're buying."
Sherlock made a low sound of acknowledgment as they made their way to the shops.
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AN: I promise, things will happen soon.
