First of all:
I got my first reviews on this story – Yeah!
01) Dear Guest, whoever you are: I was so happy to receive your review *throw some raisinets* Thank you very much for it I will try not to leave you dying with this new chapter - but I can't really promise. To be honest - where's the fun in that?!
02) Dear Honourable: You are so, so lovely, thank you I have so many ideas and it's so hard for me to write them all down as I am not a native speaker. I hope I can make you also glad with this chapter !
Everybody: Gave fun !
Act 4 : Who is Mabel?
As she opened her eyes everything was completely dark.
Was she breathing?
Check…!
She felt the soft pillow under her head and the warm blanket around her body and she knew instinctively that she was not at home in her bed.
What had happened?
In which bed was she?
And where the hell had she been brought?
She remembered that she had been working in the laboratory.
She just wanted to go home - after a long time again - to enjoy a quiet evening only for a quick meal, a glass of wine and with many hours of nonsensical television series such as Glee and Dr Who.
Instead she was now somewhere in the nowhere.
Cursing she reached again back to her vague memories.
She had been about to clean up the experimental equipment.
And then ...
„I said you owe me an explanation, Molly!"
"Shit!" horrified she sat up abruptly, suddenly feeling very sick.
„Or maybe I should better call you by your right name…?"
The memories came back with a thud.
"…Mabel…"
Sherlock had appeared in the pathology and had called her by the name which she hated like nothing else.
That could only mean one thing: he knew.
So the only question was:
Since when…and by whom?!
"God damn it!"
Slowly it was getting clear where she was.
Although that didn't quite answer the question how she had come here – had she really, actually, fainted? - But that wasn't important right now, was it?
Now it was important to disappear as quickly as possible and not to have to answer any awkward questions from the well-loved detective.
Molly slid the blanket aside and stood up slowly.
She crept towards the door, breathing quietly with each step.
No need to start hyperventilating now.
As soon as she covered the handle with her hand she opened the door and peered out cautiously.
No lights.
No noises.
Nothing which would suggest that Sherlock Holmes was somewhere near.
She was only greeted by silent darkness.
Molly pushed the door completely open without uttering any sound and slowly stepped out.
She knew in front of her was his living room and after a sharp bend to the right was the staircase.
She knew by heart his whole flat - as she had often delivered some body parts and organs for his experiments - in Sherlock's present but also his absence.
And if she had lost herself maybe in some room – his bedroom for example…this would probably remain her only secret.
Molly sensed the wardrobe more than that she saw it.
She prayed that her coat and her shoes were hanging on there.
She had to get away, away from 221B Baker Street, away from London.
Away from Sherlock !
She patted a few steps forward as the first wood flooring beneath her feet creaked loudly.
Instantly Molly stopped and held her breath.
She listened intently into the darkness, but she could not hear anyone but her heart.
Perhaps Sherlock was no longer in the flat but has already left for a new case?
Probably he had left her alone in the assumption she would be unconscious for some more time.
God, this must have been really a moment to see.
Molly exhaled slowly and deliberately, forced herself to calm down.
She had no more time left, she had to risk it – now or never.
Encouraged through inner dialogue she went forward again, ignoring the creaking of another wood flooring underneath her.
As she finally arrived at the wardrobe she stretched out her hands expectantly to take the soft fabric of her coat in reception.
Instead her hands clutched thin air and Molly stumbled clumsily forward, welcoming the several wardrobe hooks with her bare forehead.
She groaned and cursed loudly in an unladylike manner and rubbed the sore spot on her head furiously.
"And where are we going?"
Suddenly a deep voice rang out beside her before the dim light of a small table lamp lit up the room.
Startled she opened her eyes and turned to her left.
Sherlock grinned mockingly from his leather couch.
He had silently and amusedly watched the whole scene in front of him for several minutes now.
And she also knew why: he had waited like the Cheshire cat for his meal – Molly, the mouse.
Molly straightened up and tried to look at him quietly and calmly, but her heart was beating vigorously in a fast rhythm.
"What's this, Sherlock?" She turned around and pointed suggestively around. "What the hell am I doing here?"
"You fainted. So I brought you here."
She nodded. "Were are my clothes?"
Instead of answering he got up slowly and walked towards her.
Molly swallowed nervously and stretched out her hands to ward against him.
But he did not stop, but went up to her, took her hands more coarse than gently in his and pulled her close to him.
"Please ..." Molly murmured and leaned back, looking at him pleadingly. "...just let me go."
Sherlock looked at her in surprise. "You're afraid of me."
No question, rather a statement, so Molly remained silent.
He immediately let go of her. "Why would you be afraid of me?"
The question was spoken slowly as if talking to himself rather than her.
With a long look at Molly he pointed vaguely to the couch. "We should talk."
She remained silent as he sat down on the couch and patted invitingly beside him.
Molly looked like a frightened animal, ready to escape.
Has she always looked like this?
He couldn't remember.
"I just want to talk, Molly..." He stopped short. "…at least for the moment."
A brief smile spread across her face and rather slowly she followed his request and sat next to him - with a little distance - never letting him out of sight.
For a few moments they were both silent, Molly watching him, getting anxious with each passing second.
Finally Sherlock sighed out loud and gave her to understand that she should start.
Molly sagged.
"I don't know what you want me to say, Sherlock ..." she began, but he interrupted her harshly.
"I would currently very much be interested of hearing the truth."
Molly blinked at him in surprise. "Why are you doing this?"
"Why am I doing what?"
She huffed. "Why do you want to know the truth? Why do you care at all?"
"Because it is impossible to make a fool out of me, Molly."
His words were indeed quiet, but his eyes ... oh, his eyes.
Molly saw the fire burning in it, all his attention was on her.
He was deducing her.
"I know your record, Molly Hooper. I studied them, I know your career. I know why Mike Stamford employed you. You are undoubtedly a clever, ambitious woman, everyone knows this. But any fool can see that you had powerful help. I have always believed that Mike was your generous supporter as you are so painfully reminding him of his dead sister. And without question you did become a brilliant Pathologist. Christ, you are the only one who can easily work with me without going crazy. "
Sherlock's eyes were never leaving hers and he saw her - again - swallowing hard.
"And you're brilliant, so incredibly brilliant. You have lied to everyone, to me and I didn't notice anything, Molly and I'm probably one of the smartest people in London, if not across the United Kingdom. "
He moved closer. "So who are you, Molly Hooper? Why all these lies? What have you to hide? And who is helping you?"
She shook her head in disbelief.
"You were never interested in anyone but yourself, Sherlock Holmes. And especially not in me. Why now?"
She looked up and straight in his eyes.
"Is it because we have sex? Do you think just because we...we f-fuck...that you would know me better at all?"
He pressed his lips together at her bitter words, avoiding eye contact, his hands clenched into fists.
"You have no right to dig in my past! That was before our time."
Molly made an angry face and rose.
A strangled whisper escaped her throat. "I just wished we never made this damn agreement!"
She turned around, ready to leave.
Suddenly she was pulled backwards and landed hard on his chest.
"Don't you dare to leave me now without telling me anything…"
She fought tooth and nail, but his iron grip did not loosen.
Suddenly all her energy seemed to vanish from her body.
After a few moments, as Sherlock still did not make any attempt to free her, she begged him : "Let me go."
Immediately, as his hands broke away from her body, Molly turned to him and lifted her knee, ready to put him out of action.
An evasive step right back and her well-rehearsed kick went into void.
Sherlock chuckled when she came up unceremoniously on the floor in front of him.
But when she raised her head to look at him, the smile disappeared from his face.
She cried.
"Molly ..." He slowly reached out his hand to her, ready to help her getting up.
A fatal mistake.
Before he knew it, she went up to him again, pushed him back successfully.
A moment later he felt the hard edge of the table below his buttocks.
Where had she learned to fight like this?
Her little hands had were into his upper arms to keep him at bay, but he was obviously much stronger and bigger than her.
With a powerful jerk he shook her off and pushed her away from him to the opposite wall.
She managed to turn around and came to a sudden stop, facing the wall.
Again she tried to resist, wanted to flee.
But then she felt it, felt like it was drilled into her, hard and hot.
She groaned inwardly, her anger slowly disappearing.
Typical male.
"Don't fight me ..." she finally heard Sherlock's hoarse voice in her ear and Molly's anger was completely gone.
She felt his lips and tongue on her neck and closed her eyes for a moment, groaned.
She had to stay strong, she could not give up now.
"And who should I fight then?" Her voice was above a whisper.
Sherlock turned her around and pressed his groin demanding against hers.
His hands had released her arms and slowly but surely found their way under her blouse, to caress her soft skin.
"Just stop fighting me!" He growled impatiently. "Stop it!"
She returned his hungry look with the same intensity and something in Sherlock's look changed.
Before Molly could even waste a thought what this all meant he pressed his lips firmly on her.
Damn it all ...
She willingly opened her mouth and allowed his nimble tongue to touch hers.
Sherlock pressed into her body as much as it was possible and clearly Molly felt his arousal at her belly.
The kiss became more demanding.
Molly threw her arms around his neck to meet his kiss whit the same passion.
Suddenly her blouse was open and Sherlock roamed it hastily from her shoulders, let it fall to the ground carelessly.
His own shirt followed a short time later.
Their mouths still pressed together, Sherlock pushed her back on the couch.
Molly briefly groaned when her warm skin came in contact with the cold leather but his mouth and his hands were immediately on her and her skin was set on fire.
Sherlock's lips traveled down her neck, kissed the liberated skin.
Molly gasped as his cool hands closed around her breasts.
A moment later he got rid of their both trousers – and the only thing she felt then was Sherlock – on and in her.
Then she thought nothing for a long, long time.
"What is your complete name?"
Her short sad laugh shook him inwardly, but she could not see how much it actually touched him.
"You never give up, don't you?" she murmured and turned slightly in his light embrace to face him.
He pressed his lips lightly to her forehead and kissed gently the spot where she had injured herself an hour earlier. "You know me, Molly ..."
"Yes ..." she smiled sadly.
Then she took a long breath.
"I was born as Mabel Margaret Fuller."
"Mabel ..."
"Yeah, I know. A rare name. It's probably because my mother was a big fan of Heinz Rudolf Kunze."
"Of whom?" A quizzical expression.
She could not help but smile briefly. "Heinz Rudolf Kunze. He was a famous German musician. One of her favorite songs includes the name she gave me when I was born."
"Interesting. What's the song about?"
Molly looked deep into his eyes, thought for a long time before she answered him.
"The song is about a poor, love-blinded fool who wants to find his missing fiancée. She is actually a cheater and a thief. He hires a private detective named Marlow and asks him for help, to find her and bring her back to him."
She laughed suddenly cheerless.
"It's scary how well the text fits with my live story, almost as my mother would have known what would happen to me one day."
Sherlock swallowed and stared at her. "But you're not a cheater or thief."
She looked at him with a strange look in his eyes. "Not in your eyes."
Sherlock said nothing.
Molly sighed. "Listen, I ... I cannot tell you much more, Sherlock. And I don't want to. I've finished with my past a very long time ago."
"Five years is not necessarily a very long time ..." he said slowly.
She paused, was visibly shaken. "How do you know all this?"
He did not answer.
"Sherlock ..."
"You are important, Molly."
She froze because of his sudden change of topic and questioned briefly his and also her mind.
His gaze gave her an unpleasant shiver down her spine and so she sat up.
Closing her eyes she forced herself - once again - to calm down. "Sherlock, please. Please tell me who told you about that."
She had to hear from his mouth, she needed to know if she was still safe.
"I do not condemn you, Molly." Sherlock had rosen now also.
Molly's heartbeat quickened.
Her gaze changes, now demanding. "Sherlock Holmes, what do you know? Tell me ...! "
He met her gaze without blinking. "Your husband was here today ..."
The expression that crossed her face showed naked panic.
Bobbing she rose, sought out her belongings and disappeared into the bathroom.
A ringing telephone somewhere in the middle of London.
A female voice speaking first: "He knows."
"What do you want me to do?" a male voice answering.
A short silence, than:
"Get me out."
As Sherlock was left alone he desperately tried to think about the current situation, to somehow make sense of it.
He really wanted to help Molly, but how could he do it without damaging her already hurt feelings even more?
"Whatever this is ... it's over now ..."
Startled he turned around to the husky voice.
Molly stood in the doorway - her coat wrapped tightly around her body - trembling, eyes wide, tears wet her face.
She seemed ill and aged for years.
He went up to her but she raised a trembling hand and he stopped abruptly.
"Stay away from me !"
"Why are you mad at me?" Sherlock didn't understand her.
"I do not need your pity, Sherlock Holmes." Her voice was flat, dull.
"What?"
She sobbed loudly and clung to the door frame as she swayed dangerously forward.
"Molly...!"
The next moment he had her already back in his arms, but she pushed him away with incredible force.
And she looked so fragile – like a puppet.
"Don't touch me!"
Sherlock hardly breathed. "Good God! I just want you to help you."
A hysterical sound burst from her and Sherlock blinked several times confused, before he realized that she was laughing at him.
His face darkened.
"Molly, I'm quite capable of helping you. And your current behavior offends me very much."
She did not look at him, giggled unmolested on.
Sherlock was excessively angry.
Her previous command ignoring he stepped again to her and grabbed her by the wrist, forcing her to look at him.
His anger vanished instantly.
Her laugh was not a laugh - it were silent sobs.
Her body trembled as much as it was shaken by her sobs and it hurt him to see her so desperate and weak in front of him.
"Molly ..." He was not sure if she had heard him whispering her name.
She pressed herself unprepared to him, clasped him with all her might still available.
She whispered silently into his body and Sherlock tried to understand her.
But without success.
Was she speaking German ...?
He went to his knees, to be with her at eye level, to provide her with a sense of security.
Molly was pale, her brown eyes looking even bigger than usual.
Why am I noticing now that she is wearing contacts?!
She took a shaky breath and Sherlock paused, wondering what she had to say.
He had expected much - really everything. But not her next words.
"I love you..."
Sherlock was bobbing away from her as if he had burned his hands.
Molly took the moment to freely escape through the open doors, rushing down and out into the dark night of Baker Street.
Puzzled Sherlock stayed behind, unable to think clearly or even to act in any manner.
The same night Molly Hooper disappeared from London without a trace.
SYS
MajinMicha