4. It's Where My Demons Hide

Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock. Property of the BBC, Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss. No money is being made from this. No copyright enfringements intended. I also do not own Kellogg's, the parliament or Mycroft's umbrella.

Author's Notes: Hello everyone! I have to say, I've been good so far with the updating of this story (I say, modestly), although that could change. I'm going to be very busy soon, so the updates could slow down. I meant to save this chapter to post a little later in the week, but obviously, I have impulsive behaviour issues.

I would like everyone to note, please, I have nothing against, again, the british government. Not even the rise in university tuition fees; I'm sure its all for a reason.

Also, on a good note, I would like to say this chapter IS beta'd, and by the lovely adelind, who has been very supportive and prompt. This chapter would not have been any good without her.

In addition, this chapter brings my story up to above 10K words, which I find astounding, as it seems to have happened in under two weeks. Its now longer than my dissertation!

Anyways, as always, the title of this chapter is from a song I was listening to as I was writing it- in this case, it is 'Demons' by Imagine Dragons. It's a beautiful, beautiful song, and I highly recommend you listen to it some point.

This chapter is a lot more light hearted than the previous one, and contains my attempts at humour (be warned), but there is also some angst.

Chapter 4: It's Where My Demons Hide

Oh, for God's sake, just tell him.

This, Molly later found out, was easier said than done when it came to Mycroft Holmes.

But that night, that night when she realised she didn't have to be alone with her caged heart anymore, she slept peacefully for the first time since Sherlock's fall. She cried, properly and freely, no less burdened than before, but feeling all the better for not being the only one that was so. She knew this meant that she was selfish and ungrateful, but Molly didn't care. Months of sneakily checking up on John Watson in Tesco from a far away aisle, and seeing his downtrodden stance, his stress-lined face heavy with depression wore away at her guards- which had not been strong to start with.

She knew nothing about Mycroft Holmes, except that he was Sherlock's older brother, and someone with a shady role in the British government. Molly felt herself shying at her lack of political knowledge which, really, only extended to the name of the prime minister and the political parties, and maybe a bit about the sudden rise in university student loans. Molly didn't know how he would take the news, or if he would even believe her, after her previous refusals to say the words.

Sherlock is alive. Very much so.

The truth was, what this all really meant to her was, that she really didn't care. Mr Holmes could yell at her, have her locked away (please, please don't let him do that), hug her, k-kiss her- it all came down to the fact that she wouldn't be alone amore.

Nights of crying herself to sleep, curling up with Toby the cat, smelling the sweet and sour stench of secrecy from under her nose as she lay in the dark, doing nothing. Sherlock could be on the other side of the planet, for all Molly knew, and this made her heart heavy. He was alone too somewhere, as alone as her, without John for the first time in years. She wondered if he thought about her, about anyone. About his own brother, whom he had left full of grief and guilt about something she didn't understand. Pretending to be fine in traumatic circumstances was something anyone could do, but Mycroft Holmes, Molly felt, had the air of someone who had practiced for this particular role his entire life. He was heartbroken, she knew- she could feel it vibrating off him in waves of sorrow.

As Molly lay in her bed that night, after the confrontation and after Sherlock's derisive but heartfelt text, she wondered what it must be like for Mycroft. To have a brother so like him, and yet so, so…..bitter. Sherlock couldn't have been easy to be an example for growing up, but what did she know? She knew nothing of their relationship, except that it couldn't have been the best, as Sherlock obviously felt he couldn't let his own brother help him even in circumstances as difficult as beating Moriarty at his own game.

She had lied to Mr Holmes when she had said that Sherlock never talked about him. That she couldn't see him in Sherlock. The truth was, it was obvious for anyone to see what Sherlock meant to him, and for that reason, Sherlock was in him. Their eyes had the same sharp and knowledgeable tinge, the same conflict in knowing they were not, would not, be normal.

The next day, Molly felt happier and lighter, even though she knew none of this was over. She would still need to be secretive, stay away from John, Mrs Hudson, and Greg Lestrade when she could.

But Sherlock is alive.

She could say it out loud to one person.

'Sherlock is alive', Molly said confidently to her mirror, nodding at her own appearance. Her eyes still had dark circles, and her face was still too pale. But today, today Molly Hooper could get back a bit of her old life. Before Jim from IT who was James Moriarty from Hell, before deception became second skin to her and lies dripped off her tongue like honey.

Molly walked hurriedly to work the next day, wrapping her baby blue scarf tighter around her neck. She didn't know what she was rushing for, what she was expecting to happen, really.

As she entered the hospital, dumped her bag and coat in her office, and walked quickly to the lab, Molly suddenly became stock still.

The lab was empty, void of Anthea or anyone else. Molly felt like smacking herself, the gesture already happening inside her stomach.

How could she have forgotten?

Anthea wasn't here. Of all times to tell the woman to go away, she had to do it just before she could actually give her the news she had been placed in Molly's lab for, in the first place. The lab felt strangely unsafe, as if Anthea had been a barrier, a protection from something Molly didn't understand. In the months after her attack by Baskov, Molly had felt conflicted and struggled with the idea that someone out there wanted to harm her, when she herself had never done anything to hurt anyone, not on purpose. The whole situation was still blurry to her, but when Anthea had been here, the blurriness hadn't mattered so much. Would she be safe without her?

As the day went on, Molly dove into her work, refusing to think about the implications. The mortuary stayed silent, and Molly felt as alive as one of the corpses on her tables. Molly refused to think about Anthea, who was funny and loud, even in her silence and constant use of sarcasm when she did speak.

She hadn't really thought about it, when she had been afraid and angry at Mycroft, that Anthea was her only link to the man himself. She had no mobile number, no address, and no particular place of work.

She wondered, briefly, if she walked into the Parliament and asked for Mycroft Holmes, whether that would help.

Probably not.

Sherlock is alive.

'What do I do now?', Molly asked Mrs Marple, staring down at the female corpse on the autopsy table. 'I d-don't even know who he is, not really. He said he was a government official. Um, a minor one. I don't even know what that means.'

Mrs Marple looked particularly pale under the harsh lights of the mortuary, the Y incision revealing her breast plate.

'I….I don't think he's a minor anything', Molly said, to herself. 'I m-mean. He has a driver. And a Jaguar. And an assistant that wears shoes I could never afford. He carries a brolly everywhere, I think.'

Mr Holmes' umbrella, Molly was sure, was his version of Sherlock's Belstaff coat. The day wore on, and Molly grew more anxious.

It seemed the burden was hers for now, and hers only.

Baskov wrapped his arms tightly around Molly's throat, eliciting a choking sound from her mouth. She felt the oxygen draining from her lungs, and her lips burned, as if they had been branded by her would-be killer's glaze. Just as she was about to lose consciousness, Molly looked behind her killer, and saw Mycroft Holmes staring back at her, his eyes icy and cold. He did nothing.

Molly screamed out loud and shot upright on her bed, breathing hard.

It was a dream.

Relief filled her as she cried, her head still buzzing like a hive of bees. She placed her hand on her throat, remembering the purple bruises which, even though they had faded, felt branded on her as if they were new.

She wondered if she would ever know where Sherlock was, or if he would come back, or why she had been attacked. She didn't know why, but she felt like all of it was related, and that made her panic worse.

For not the first time, her thoughts returned to the older brother, to the mysterious Mycroft Holmes.

Closing her eyes, Molly willed herself back to sleep.

Two weeks later, and Mycroft Holmes had still not contacted Molly. She didn't know why she had felt he would, but if their last confrontation was anything to go by, Mr Holmes still believed that Sherlock's death was not what it seemed to be.

But please do not think this is over.

This wasn't over, it really wasn't. Sherlock was alive, only Molly knew, and Sherlock wanted his brother to know now, too. But now, Molly was desperate.

Every day the anticipation grew, her eyes ready to perceive an image of a Jaguar parked in front of St Bart's, to see Anthea leaning against an autopsy table.

Still, nothing happened. Sherlock did not try to contact her again. Mycroft Holmes seemed to have given up on her.

Really, she shouldn't have been surprised, disappointed.

It was the story of her life.

Seven months, 2 weeks and 3 days after Sherlock's fall, Molly was standing in the cereal aisle of Tesco, frowning at the price of a box of Kellogg's Special K porridge. She put it back on the shelf, unsure of its benefits anyway. She knew she needed to lose weight- the stress of the last seven months and a bit had really got to her, and she knew she had eaten more than was necessarily good for her waist line. Despite all that happened, she was determined to move on with her life. She would find a new boyfriend, she would. A good one, one that wasn't a psychopath or mean, someone would deserve her. Not the other way around. She was still working on her self-esteem, really.

'Molly?'

Molly looked up from the cereal shelf, her eyes wide. John Watson stood in front of her, a weary look in his eyes. His oatmeal jumper seemed particularly dreary somehow, sagged along with his shoulders. His eyes were dark and tired. His shopping trolley held only a single small pint of milk.

'John!', Molly squeaked. 'I d-didn't see you! How are you?'.

She rushed forward, awkwardly hugging him, narrowly missing tripping over his trolley wheels. John hugged her back warmly, if slightly distantly. He smelled comfortingly like biscuits and tea.

Molly hadn't realised how much she had missed John- human contact in general, really- and realised he hadn't answered her question.

'I haven't seen you in a while', he said, almost conversationally, his tired eyes moving slowly over her form.

Molly laughed, the sound fake and shrill. Inside, she felt like dying from the guilt.

'I've been b-busy, y-you know, work…', she said, uncomfortably. 'Dead bodies don't autopsy themselves. Oh god, sorry!'

At the word 'dead', John's face had turned pale, and his leg shook oddly, as if he was about to fall. Molly moved forward, just in case, but he held out a hand.

'Sorry', he said, not really meaning it. 'It just plays up sometimes, you know how it is'.

'Yeah', Molly said. The guilt was killing her. She looked down into her own shopping basket.

John looked at her oddly.

'Have you been avoiding me?', he said, suddenly. His voice calm. Molly automatically went red, her face flaming with guilt and embarrassment.

'No!', she said, knowing how unconvincing it sounded. 'I…I just didn't….I was going to visit Mrs Hudson soon. Um, ask for her gingerbread recipe. It's…good'.

They both went silent, people bustling past them, the overheard speaker ringing out around them. Molly's heart was thumping hard, the cage around it tightening until if felt like it would tear her apart.

Sherlock is alive, John.

Tears filled her eyes. John looked as dead as he believed Sherlock was, and this hurt her more than she understood, pulling and ripping at something inside. Guilt rose, filling her, as if it would drown her.

'I'm sorry', she said, not for the first time. She remembered Mycroft Holmes. 'I just c-couldn't…'

I just couldn't face lying anymore.

To make it worse, John looked like he understood.

'It's okay', he said, his face expressionless. 'Please stop…stop crying'.

Molly choked her sob, and tried to smile.

'Most people have stopped talking to me', John said, nonchalantly. 'A lot of people don't know what to believe. So I understand.'

'I believe in Sherlock', Molly said. They both winced at Sherlock's name. 'I should've….what about the Detective Inspector? Um, Lestrade? Hasn't h-he…?'

John smiled sadly.

'I think he doesn't know what to think', John said. 'Not sure I do either'.

Molly wiped her tears, and looked John in the face.

'Sherlock would never lie to you, John', Molly said, firmly. 'H-he cared about you. Like no one else'.

John looked down. Molly knew, somehow, that he was willing himself not to cry. Then, like an electric shock, something occurred to Molly.

'W-What, um, what about his brother?', Molly said, trying to seem casual. John's head snapped up.

'How do you know him?' John demanded, his voice loud and strong, unlike before. A woman opposite them looked around at them, with a surprised expression. 'Has he been…has he contacted you?'

Molly frowned, confused. There was something not quite right here, she knew, John's tone vibrating in her brain. Anger, bitterness, misery. That all made sense, but not the tone of something beyond anger, which she could feel with the understanding of someone who had believed a psychopath to be an innocent lover.

Molly lied. Even to herself, and she didn't know why.

'No', Molly said, as calmly as she could. 'I just…I saw him once. With Sherlock, ages ago. I just wondered whether he might've, you know, come to see you'.

John stared at her for a while, tiredly, like she was a puzzle he didn't understand.

'No,' John said, bitterly. 'And I hope I never see him again'.

'But…', Molly said, unsure of what was really going on, now. 'Couldn't he have helped? With Sherlock's reputation, I mean. Sherlock, um, said he was involved in government work-'

'Mycroft is the British government', John spat out. Molly flinched, and John calmed down. 'Sorry. He…he didn't save Sherlock before. There's no point now.'

Confusion filled Molly, the bitterness in John's tone ringing alarm bells in her head. Something didn't fit, and she knew there was something, of course there was something, that she hadn't been told. But she had more important things to do first.

'D-do you know how I could find him?' she asked, shyly, not wanting to anger John further. John looked at her incredulously. 'Sherlock left some things in the mortuary- nothing important- but…someone should have them, I mean. I-I can't keep them.'

Molly was lying through her teeth, and she wondered if John could see the obviousness of the lie. She hated this, wished it would all stop, that the lies would stop, but right now this was all she knew.

Molly started to pray that John wouldn't ask for Sherlock's things from the lab- there wasn't anything, really. Molly wondered quickly whether St Bart's would notice a missing microscope, if John did ask to take them himself.

Surprisingly, John laughed. A small, sarcastic laugh.

'Like I said, he's Mycroft fucking Holmes', John said, his voice dripping with disdain. 'He is the government.'

Suddenly, John hugged Molly, quickly and tightly, and pushed his trolley away from her.

'Just talk to one of his CCTV cameras, any one of them will do,' John said, seriously. 'Maybe one outside the hospital. Good luck with him. You'll need it'.

'John…', Molly said, confused and sad, as John walked away from her.

John smiled.

'Let me know when you go to see Mrs Hudson. I haven't seen her in a while myself', he said, sadly.

At Molly's confused expression, John smiled.

'I don't live there anymore', he confirmed, and walked away without a goodbye, leaving Molly by herself.

She noticed he hadn't taken anything from the cereal aisle.

She wondered if it was possible to die of guilt.

The annoying thing was that Molly didn't know whether John was being serious. But truthfully, if he had been sarcastic, she couldn't blame him. She was a terrible friend. She deserved to make a fool out of herself.

She sat, alone, in her flat all night, wondering and worrying. According to John, Sherlock's brother was the British government. Molly didn't know much about politics, as she had often thought before, but even she knew that a government couldn't be contained to one person. He definitely wasn't the prime minister- she knew that much from the Sky news channel. It did, however, explain a lot about how Sherlock had not ended up behind bars. Yet.

Even if he was the government, what did that have to do with CCTV cameras? Did, did he own them? Surely he can't own every CCTV camera in England.

Who on Earth is Mycroft Holmes?

Molly sat at her laptop, munching on instant noodles, with Toby at her feet. Looking up Mycroft Holmes, as many times as she had tried, yielded nothing at all. Several hours later, darkness filling her room, Molly found herself on a familiar website that had nothing to with Sherlock's brother.

The website was a page for a Master's degree course in Neuroscience, at a London university. Even though she had her medical degree, which she was very proud of and had made good use of, in her opinion- she couldn't deny her interest in a specific part of the body. She had often wondered about the brain, and she had to admit, that out of the many bodies that came to her, the ones with diseases of the brain where the ones that interested her the most. Prion diseases, neurodegeneration, immunologically privileged areas. To her, it was all interesting, and her curiosity got the best of her. Obviously, she often looked up and did her own research on the topic, using Pubmed and Medline.

But, at heart, Molly was definitely, really, the studious kind. She believed, she knew, that having a high interest in anything of this kind, was a thirst that could only be sated by academic and educational sources. So, no matter how much she told herself that one degree was enough, one very good and useful degree, she couldn't help but long for this specific one.

The problem was in the tuition fees. That much, she supposed, she could blame on the government, without knowing much on politics. Molly did earn well, she knew she did, but with a rent as high as hers for living in central London, she didn't have a lot saved up. The truth was, essentially, she could not afford to go back into study, even in a one year degree course.

Molly sighed, and clicked off the university site.

Two days later, Molly suddenly realised that she really didn't have any dignity left to lose. She had a lost the little she had had left, at Sherlock's funeral, with her party dress.

Sherlock is alive.

By this point, Molly was desperate. She yanked off her latex gloves, dumped her pipette, and rushed outside the hospital. Outside, people walked past, casually, chatting, ambulance sirens ringing distantly somewhere far away. She knew she must look odd with her white lab coat; her hair was in disarray from running too fast.

Well, she supposed. There's nothing left for it. Molly steeled herself, and hoped people weren't watching her.

'MYCROFT HOLMES!', Molly yelled out loud. The words, as they careered out of her mouth, felt false and unpromising. On her left side, a child started crying. The mother quickly picked her child up, gave Molly a dirty look, and stalked off.

Molly waited a few minutes. No black, sleek car. No Anthea.

This is ridiculous.

Just as Molly was about to walk gloomily back inside, she realised there was a slight whiny sound coming from above her head.

On the side of the St Bart's building, just above the main entrance, were two CCTV cameras, looking in opposite directions. One had somehow turned, and was now spinning to focus on her. Molly squeaked.

She must be going insane.

John was telling the truth.

Molly looked curiously at the camera, and experimentally moved to the right side of the camera. Within seconds, the whining sound was back, and the camera turned to face her. She moved even further away, around the corner of the hospital. Slowly, the other CCTV camera turned around. She felt as if she was on a spotlight.

Feeling morbidly excited- she knew she should be worried really, for all she knew, she was communicating with the mafia, or a perverted police officer- she ran back to the other side, in front of the entrance of the hospital. A teenage girl walked out of the entrance, and stared at her oddly. The first camera turned towards her.

It was like she was being flirted with, by a camera.

Molly couldn't help it. Before she knew it, laughter bubbled out of her. She knew she must look like a crazed fool to everyone but herself (even to herself), but this insane turn in her life felt so comfortable, in a way it really shouldn't. It reminded her of Sherlock, and as much as she knew it was foolish, it made her feel safe.

Steeling herself again, and looking around her, hoping no one was too close, she rose upwards, onto her toes.

'Please', she said, as loudly as she dared. 'I need to speak to you. Um, when you can. P-please.'

Molly felt foolish. She had done some very stupid things in her life, massive mistakes, but this was the first time that she felt she truly was an idiot.

Molly had worked the rest of the day, and nothing had happened. No Jaguar parked outside, no sarcastic assistant. The frustration in her chest grew, and Molly felt like crying with the unfairness. Finally, she could talk to someone about her, about Sherlock's, darkest secret, unburden herself- and she couldn't do it.

It was unfair and cruel, it really was.

Evening rolled around, and Molly's shift was done. She gathered her coat, back aching with anger and sadness. But mainly, really, loneliness. She felt empty in her stomach and her skull, the nothingness that was now her ruining her for any other feeling. As she walked out of the hospital, her hope crumbled, like a trail of breadcrumbs.

'I understand I am a difficult man to contact-'

Molly squeaked loudly, jumping out of her skin, and turned around to see a very tall man looming over her.

'…However, I would be indebted to you if you did not attempt to use my name so ostentatiously in the general public,' the man said, mysteriously, almost smiling down at her.

'Mycroft!', Molly squealed, before composing herself, her cheeks blushing scarlet even in the dark. 'I-I mean, Mr Holmes…I d-didn't see you'.

The cold, wet air filled Molly's nostrils, and she breathed in deeply, trying to calm herself. Meanwhile Mycroft Holmes continued to look down at her, a look of

annoyance on his face, as if her obvious statement offended him, somehow.

'Obviously', he said, succinctly. 'I should inform you, lest you try to harass government property again, that I am not in ownership of all CCTV cameras in England. So please, in the name of your wellbeing, I suggest you do not try that antic again'.

'So that was you?', Molly said, shocked. She didn't really know what she was expecting. 'I-I…I wasn't harassing anything!'

Mycroft's mouth moved oddly, as if he was suppressing a quirk.

'It was mostly myself, yes', he admitted. 'Though I must confess, my assistant found much pleasure in…humouring you'.

Molly blushed. Of course he hadn't been following her around with his cameras. That- that would be unprofessional.

'I know', Molly said, and remembered why she had called him. 'Um'.

Silence followed, and Mycroft stood patiently next to his car, their reflection distorted in its shiny, dark surface. Molly stared at his umbrella. She wondered whether it was actually an umbrella, since he seemed unnaturally fond of it.

Sherlock is alive.

How could she, really, tell him this? Guilt and shyness filled her, as she readied herself to expect any reaction from him. How did anybody react to hearing that, someone that they very obviously loved, was not dead, as they thought? Her heart thumped hard, high in her throat, obstructing any noise from her mouth.

'I assume you called me for a reason', Mycroft prompted pleasantly. Molly saw, in his eyes, a small slice of anxiousness, as if he already knew what she wanted to say. Hoping, praying, that it was what she was going to say.

She couldn't deny him, any longer. It wasn't fair to him, or to her.

'I…', Molly gulped hard, shaking. The nervousness grew in her belly, wriggling at a rapid pace. Spots filled her vision, and suddenly, her legs gave out.

Molly yelled out, pain hitting her as she fell. Quickly as she fell, Molly felt herself rise up, a sudden warm radiating from her upper arms, from above her. Mycroft held her gingerly by her sides, umbrella on the floor, a look of concern on his face.

'I must admit, I'm not sure what happened', Mycroft said, quickly. The concerned expression slipped off his face as fast as it had arrived. Molly stood up by herself, and he removed his arms. Molly's arms burned, unusually, where he had been holding her before.

'Are you-', Mycroft started.

'Your brother is alive', Molly gasped, interrupting Mycroft. 'Sherlock…he's alive'.

Molly almost flinched, and then faltered. That was not how she was going to say it, in a rush of pain and shock, letting the nervousness to get to her. He didn't deserve that, and she almost wished she hadn't told him.

Mycroft's normally expressionless face went through a mirage of emotions, flitting through as many as Molly could name, and some others she could not. His hands shook, and then stilled, and his face crumpled as he looked down.

One beat, two beats, and the man was looking up at her, expressionless again. He stood tall, looking at her, but also looking past her.

Molly pulled out her phone, and clicked for the text he had sent her, about two weeks ago.

Oh, for God's sake, just tell him. SH

'He…He sent me this. To tell you', Molly said, quickly, pressing her small phone into his large hands. 'He told me not to, before, I mean. You s-see, I helped him. Fake his death. That b-body….it wasn't him. It was someone else. Um'.

Molly looked at Mycroft, who was still staring at her phone, as if it was some kind of lifeline. A link to his brother, who had deceived him in the cruellest way possible, and chose to tell him through the most insulting source. Molly knew it for what it was, and there was no point in pretending otherwise. Mycroft Holmes should have known Sherlock was alive from the start, and this was not how he was supposed to have found out.

'I'm sorry', Molly said, for what felt like the millionth time. 'I didn't want to lie. But I…I had to'.

Mycroft handed her back her phone, and looked at a spot behind Molly. She could almost see the cogs turning in his brain. His face held no sign of any emotion.

I suppose he really is not an emotional man.

'Thank you', he said, abruptly. Molly breathed in hard.

Then, as mysteriously as he had appeared, Molly breathed out and Mycroft had already ducked into his car.

Then he disappeared, like a magician in a box, leaving her more alone than ever.

TBC

So that's all for now, folks! I hope you guys liked it. As always, please read and review, they feed the plotbunnies. The next chapter should be in a week or so hopefully, but as I have a rather massive thing coming up, I may be a bit more delayed. Sorry! Also, I am shameless in this chapter. My field of study is Neuroscience, and I have done the particular degree course Molly is describing. All for a reason, though. Also, I want to point out that after the next chapter, this story is going to change quite a bit, at least Mycroft will. This story is in for a slightly darker turn. I feel like I'm exaggerating a bit, but so far I've sort of setting up the story, so we shall see.

Until next time.