Molly's mind went utterly blank as Sherlock's mouth moved over hers. He was kissing her. Sherlock Holmes, the man she'd loved and so desperately wanted for so many years – even when engaged to another man she thought she'd loved – was kissing her. And not just some friendly peck on the cheek; no, a full on snog, with lips and tongue, his arms around her holding her tight to his body. Her fists clenched around the lapels of his Belstaff – when had she moved her hands from his back? – and his hands were moving up to tug at her hair, angling her head so he could deepen the kiss.
"Molly," he groaned against her lips as they paused for air.
"Yes?" she breathed, gazing up at him, finally easing her grip on his coat enough for one hand to slide up to his neck.
Whatever he was about to say – and he was definitely going to say something, as his mouth had opened – was immediately interrupted by the bursting open of the morgue doors. They swiveled their heads and stared, both frozen into immobility as what seemed like dozens of black-clad soldiers poured into the room.
Molly shrank back as several of them stormed towards her and Sherlock, shouting at them to stand still. Another five or six rushed across the room, one of them pausing to turn off the bone saw before joining the others crowded around the body lying on the floor. She was further stunned by the sudden appearance of a group dressed head to toe in HazMat gear, carrying a stretcher between them and running towards the body. In a matter of seconds, they had Peter Welmsley neatly packed into a body bag and tied onto the stretcher. Several of them were spraying strongly- smelling antiseptic liquid from metal containers onto the mess of blood and bone on the floor.
"What the hell is this?"
Sherlock's angered voice startled her and she looked over to see Mycroft standing nearby, his hands calmly clasped behind his back.
"Precautions," Mycroft told him sharply. He looked at the soldiers that were guarding them. "The usual decontamination procedure, please. And thorough blood tests."
Neither Molly nor Sherlock could say a word before they were gripped strongly by soldiers and forced from the morgue.
"Sherlock?" she said worriedly, looking at him as they were marched through the basement hallways.
"We'll be fine," he said, though clearly not meaning to comfort her all that much. "Mycroft has always been happy to let me know when he thinks I'm about to die. Or go to prison. He would have said something."
It did very little to assuage her panic. If anything, the fact that they were about to face government- issued decontamination and testing procedures only freaked her out more, considering a man had just come viciously back to life on her autopsy table and tried to kill her.
They were shoved unceremoniously through the delivery doors at the back of Barts and immediately loaded into the back of a black military lorry. Two soldiers climbed in with them, forcing them to take a seat. There was silence in the lorry as the driver started the engine. They
jerked slightly in their seats when the van lurched forward, rumbling away from the hospital.
"What are the chances either of you actually knows what is going on?" Sherlock asked flippantly, his eyes darting back and forth between the two soldiers.
The men simply looked at one another, their faces stony and unreadable. Sherlock nodded, frowning. "Thought not. Brute and no brains."
Molly gaped at him - openly insulting two very skilled, very strong soldiers holding very large guns. Just their presence was enough to have her weak-kneed. Or perhaps that was something leftover from what had transpired just before the soldiers burst into her morgue...
Oh God.
Sherlock had kissed her. Really thoroughly. With a reanimated corpse ten feet away. And bloody hell, he'd been good at it. In the grand scheme of things it was hardly the most shocking event of the day, but at least it was something her mind could latch onto. Something she might actually be able to figure out.
Her breathing didn't stand a chance at slowing down before they arrived at the government building, swept out of the lorry and into another basement under the watchful eye of more soldiers. After walking through a wind-tunnel passage, white-clad and masked technicians met them in a cement room with two shower heads at the far end, separated by a cement block half- wall. Molly was brought to one side of it while Sherlock was escorted to the other.
"Clothes off," one of the technicians said, unraveling a biohazard bag and placing it on the ground in front of her.
Oh just wonderful. She would never see her favorite blouse again. Irritably, Molly shed her lab coat and stuffed it in the bag, taking her mobile and placing it on the half-wall. Her shoes, socks, trousers, and blouse followed into the bag. She hesitated before removing her bra and knickers, but the technician showed no signs of turning away, and so, face burning, she reached back to undo the clasp on her bra.
Her fingers fumbled as she realized that Sherlock was also undressing right next to her. The thought made her flush even redder. She kept her head averted and hoped he was doing the same...and that if he wasn't, that he would keep any observations as to her person strictly to himself.
"Your mobile, Mr. Holmes," she heard one of the technicians say. Sherlock started to argue with the man, who simply waited out the tirade. "Your brother's orders," he said in a bored tone once Sherlock had gone silent again. With an annoyed grunt, Sherlock slapped the phone into the man's gloved hand.
"Yours too," 'her' technician said, holding out his hand.
With an annoyed glare, Molly handed over the device. Once the technician had taken everything, he moved to the metal door, patiently waiting for his counterpart to finish with Sherlock.
"The doctor will be by to examine you as soon as you've finished your scrub-up," Technician No. 1 said as soon as Sherlock had huffily finished stuffing his clothes and shoes – and expensive wristwatch – into the biohazard bag. Then the two of them left the room, carrying Molly and Sherlock's belongings with them – and very audibly locking the door behind them.
"As if we're going to just stroll out of here naked," Molly scoffed, folding her arms across her chest. She still hadn't turned to face Sherlock, instead making her way to the shower and reaching
for the soap that had been provided. "May as well get this over with, I guess."
"Molly, conversation really isn't necessary at the moment," Sherlock snapped. She finally allowed herself to face him, her gaze traveling over what she could see of his naked torso. He was facing her but his eyes were distant, distracted, clearly focused on something other than her naked form. Considering that he was the one who'd kissed her, Molly was a bit peeved at his lack of a reaction, then chided herself for being a ninny; of course he wasn't going to be looking at her under these circumstances! He was no doubt analyzing everything that had just happened to them, processing the limited data they had, as she should be doing.
Instead, her gaze lingered on his body as he continued standing there, left hand supporting the right elbow, fingers of his right hand tapping against his lips, lost in thought. His chest was pale and lean, but well formed with only a few sparse hairs around each of his nipples. Oh God, I'm looking at Sherlock's nipples, Molly thought with the beginning of an hysterical giggle trying to fight its way past her lips. She took a deep breath and decided it would be best if she left him to his thoughts. She turned on the water, gasping at the frigid blast that struck her body. At least it helped cool down her inappropriate physical reaction to the sight of Sherlock's bare chest!
The water warmed eventually, and she was able to scrub down with the antimicrobial soap. After she'd finished and turned off the spray, her hair dripped loudly on the cement floor as she did her best to wring it out. Sherlock was only a minute behind her in spite of his later start; ah, the perks of shorter hair, Molly thought sourly.
Just when she was beginning to shiver from the evaporating water, the door opened once more and a middle-aged female doctor walked in with a clear purpose. Dressed similarly to the technicians and pushing a cart filled with green scrubs and a few medical examination tools, she asked for Molly to stand with her arms outstretched before performing a very thorough inspection of her skin, particularly around the neck, arms, and spine.
"Any bites? Any broken skin or mucosal contact?" the doctor asked.
"No, none," Molly answered, happy when the doctor deemed her passable and handed her a set of sterile, plastic scrubs.
She gratefully pulled on the scrubs as the doctor moved on to Sherlock. When her head popped through the neck hole of the top, she thought for just a moment that she'd seen Sherlock quickly look away.
It was enough to make her pause, watching him as he stood with his arms splayed, waiting for his inspection to be finished before they moved on to their next round of medical humiliation. It was probably wrong of her to keep focusing on the kiss with all that had transpired, but she couldn't help it. It had been so very unexpected, and so very, very wonderful. Everything she'd ever fantasized a kiss from Sherlock would be, and then some.
It wasn't difficult to force her mind back to reality when they were escorted out of the shower. Her hair clung to her back and soaked her top as they passed through another wind tunnel and into a small room set up for testing. Two technicians were already there, preparing for blood tests and mouth swabs. Molly nervously took a seat in one of the chairs, glancing at Sherlock as he mechanically sat down and presented the inside of his arm, resting it on the arm of the chair. She tried not to think about the fact that this sort of thing was probably old hat for him.
The technicians filled vials with their blood and asked for saliva in a plastic container before swabbing their cheeks, and then just as suddenly as it had all started, it was over and they were left alone in the chilly exam room. Molly stuck her hands between her knees, still a bit cold, and glanced anxiously around the room.
"Still think it's not rabies?" Sherlock broke the silence.
"I'm a little more convinced," she conceded. "But I still don't understand how it could advance so quickly...and so violently."
"Not to mention the fact that he was dead." "Yes," she agreed slowly, quietly. "There is that."
Her mind whirled with the implications of that sort of virus causing that sort of reaction in a human being. How did he contract it? Where had it come from? And how had he been able to leap off her autopsy table an hour after being declared dead?
Her thoughts were interrupted by the door opening. A smartly dressed man walked in carrying a clipboard and pen, not even looking at them as he pulled a metal chair away from the wall and sat down.
"State your name and occupation, please," he said in a clipped tone.
"Sherlo – "
"Not yours, hers," the man said, pointing with the pen.
Molly swallowed. "Molly Hooper, Specialty Registrar," she said.
"And you were authorized to perform the post mortem of the deceased Peter Welmsley?" the man continued, writing quickly.
"Y-yes," Molly confirmed, slightly confused by the line of questioning. "He was brought to me as a case of special interest."
"And you can confirm he was not showing signs of life when you started?"
"Well, yes," she said, trying her best to recollect the moments before things had gone downhill. "He wasn't moving, he was showing the proper start of discoloration – "
"No vitals confirmed," the man said, making another note.
Molly frowned, watching him. Had she just been insulted for her post mortem technique?
"There's usually no reason to check for vital signs by the time they get to me," she said through her teeth, earning a short chuckle from Sherlock.
Her interrogator glanced up, lifting an eyebrow. "What were the first signs of animation?"
Molly took a deep breath and told him every detail of what had happened, from the first muscle twitch to the horrific return to life and her finally ending it with the bone saw. In the moment, she had been terrified, but in recounting the event, everything finally came into focus and she realized just how lucky she was to have escaped without injury.
"To clarify," the man said. "The moment he ceased to display signs of life was when you severed his spinal column?"
"Yes," Molly told him with a nod.
"And you can confirm all of this?" he asked Sherlock.
"Every bit of it," Sherlock said sharply.
The man nodded, capped his pen, and stood to leave the room.
"Wait!" Molly exclaimed, glancing uncertainly over at Sherlock. "Is that all? Are we free to go now?"
"Those are all the questions I have for you at this time, yes," the unnamed bureaucrat said. "However, your release hasn't been authorized yet."
When Molly demanded to know when that would happen, the man ignored her and continued out the door. It closed behind him with a clang, and Molly heard the lock being engaged. She turned to Sherlock, annoyed that he seemed perfectly calm. "Can you believe this?"
"All too well," he replied coolly. "Judging by the speed with which my brother and his military lackeys arrived in the morgue and we were whisked away to this facility..."
"This isn't an isolated incident," Molly finished slowly.
The idea of others possibly facing the same horrific situation she had sent a chill up her spine. But it made sense; how else would Mycroft have known to send in the military and HAZMAT team to the St. Barts morgue unless Mr. Welmsley's symptoms had been reported and recognized? Of course it was also possible that he'd simply been monitoring the CCTV cameras – spying on his brother – but she thought he'd finally stopped all that nonsense years ago. Then again, with either a resurrected Jim Moriarty or an imposter still on the loose, who knew what security measures Sherlock's brother might deem necessary?
The sound of the door opening caught her attention; she and Sherlock both looked up to see Mycroft Holmes stroll into the room in all his three-piece-suited glory.
"Miss Hooper, Sherlock," he said, gracing them with a cool look apiece. "Ready to go home?"
Sherlock folded his arms across his chest and deliberately leaned back in his chair, looking as if he had every intention of settling in for the long haul. "Not until you tell us what's going on."
Mycroft raised an eyebrow. "You don't already know? Wouldn't care to...hazard a guess?"
"Not without more facts at my disposal," Sherlock scoffed. "I presume there are files for me to examine?"
Mycroft gave him an unreadable smile, as unflappable as ever. "You're not investigating this, Sherlock. You don't need any files."
Sherlock narrowed his eyes. Molly knew that look. It was the one that meant he was perfectly aware when someone was lying to his face.
"Would that be because there aren't any files?" he asked
"Your escort is waiting to take you back to Baker Street," Mycroft said, completely ignoring his brother's question. He gave Molly a tight-lipped smile, one she assumed was supposed to be apologetic as he added: "Both of you, I'm afraid. Much easier to deal with you both in one location."
"You mean keep us from telling anyone what happened in the morgue," Sherlock corrected him crossly.
Mycroft responded with a one-shouldered shrug. "Secrecy is paramount, Sherlock; no one wants a panic about what I can assure you has been an isolated incident..."
"Bullshit," Molly interrupted angrily. She'd been happy to let the two brothers spar, but that blatant untruth was more than she could take. Both Holmes men gave her startled looks as she stood up and rested her fists on the table. "If this was an 'isolated incident' the soldiers and HAZMAT teams wouldn't have been so quick to respond." She fixed Mycroft with what she hoped was a steely gaze. "This has happened before."
His smile was a little more sincere this time. "I'll acquire an incident report for you. As soon as the information retrieved from St. Barts and your medical data has been collated and added to the database."
As far as both Molly and Sherlock were concerned, that was tantamount to an admission that they were right in their assumptions; Molly could practically see Sherlock's mind working through the puzzle now that their surmises had been tacitly confirmed, but Mycroft refused to say another word, simply waited for them to follow him from the room.
