As was her habit, Molly arrived at the Watson home before either Mrs. Hudson or Rosie were awake, to take over the care of their goddaughter. She tidied up quietly, slipping into the small guest room where Mrs. Hudson slept as she worked to collect the baby monitor so Rosie's fussy waking wouldn't disturb Martha. Though the guest room was small and—as the name implied—meant for guests, it was rarely empty these days and held little signs of its most regular guests. A goodly portion of the contents were Molly's; Molly's sheets and bedspread and pillows covered the bed, Molly's emergency toiletry kit sat atop a pathology journal on the shelf opposite the bed, a lemon cuticle cream sat on the nightstand, a pair of Molly's shoes and slippers kept in the corner for those all too frequent times she'd forgotten to bring one or the other. Mrs. Hudson was the next most easily noticed presence; some edibles tucked into the drawer of the nightstand, a few gay romance novels stacked beside Molly's cuticle cream, a half-used tube of liniment on the shelf, and a travel container for Martha's favorite breakfast tea. And if you looked just a bit longer, it was possible to notice the faint signs of Greg's occasional visits; a forgotten sock balled up under the chair he used in the morning to put his shoes on, a shaving kit the other side of Mrs. Hudson's liniment, a dried up pen on the window sill he'd gotten distracted half way through refilling. Molly took a moment to kidnap the pen and its abandoned refill when she took the monitor, swapping out the refill and tucking the pen into her work bag by the door to return to Greg when she likely saw him later that day.
Though Greg had been playing it rather close to the vest, Molly had noticed the signs of a new—healthy—relationship a few months after Greg had finalized the divorce. The quietly posh pen and notebook set had clearly been a gift from his rich new girlfriend. Molly easily approved of the anonymous woman for despite the rather difficult times they'd all been struggling through, Greg—for once in all the years she'd known him—looked truly happy when no one was looking. (And the grins he got sometimes when he surreptitiously checked his phone were absolutely adorable. She could not wait for the pair to come out as a couple so she didn't have to keep her giddy approval to herself.)
Like clockwork, at three after three, the near silence on the monitor was broken by the beginnings of a Watson fuss. (It was rather amusing to note that Rosie's fussing often sounded rather like John's flustered huffing when Sherlock was being particularly bloody minded. Though now, even the brief, peripheral thought of Sherlock brought tears clamoring to her eyes.)
Molly greeted the babe with quiet cooing, changing her and patting her and distracting her with a bit of breakfast before dressing and bundling the littlest Watson up, nesting the precious babe on her hip and slipping out the door. It was a good thing the Watsons had moved away from central London and into a quieter, safer borough. For Rosie Watson was quite partial to late night and early morning walks and was a real terror on the rare days she did not get one. So young and already relentless in her demands for the occasional baby sized adventure.
They swayed slow through the night; calm and quiet as godmother murmured poetry and scientific theory to goddaughter and answered sweetly to the things the little human pointed at with curiosity or enthusiasm. Molly found these long walks in the chilly London air, with Rosie tucked at her side, to be a true balm to her soul. It was not just that Rosie was a child and that a certain healing seemed to come with being so wrapped up in the innocent newness of the world through a child's daily experiences, it was also catching glimpses of Mary and John in the most unexpected of places. Everyone saw Mary in Rosie's mischievous eyes and grins, and John in her stubborn jaw and pouts. But Molly wasn't sure who else saw Mary in the way Rosie was beginning to hold her cups and spoons; John in that little irritated side to side bob and huff when Rosie was particularly frustrated. The bigger Rosie grew, the more Molly saw of both her parents in the way she moved through the world.
"Good Lord, I hope you're not an adrenaline junkie like your da. No one'll be able to keep up with you!" Molly groaned quietly to herself before Rosie decided the best and only place her fingers currently belonged was directly inside Molly Hooper's mouth.
It was going to be a long day if Rosie was already this excited for it but, as Molly sputtered and laughed earnestly and wholly for the first time in over a month, she decided it was going to be a long good day. Yesterday had been an ending, a closing of a beautiful but ultimately painful chapter in her life. Today was something new, something better built on the ashes. It would certainly be easier said than done but Molly Hooper was determined to be happy again. And no one was allowed to stop her.
Not even Sherlock bloody Holmes.
Not even Molly bloody Hooper.
Later that day, after breakfast and only minutes after she'd finished dressing Rosie from her bath (and suspiciously well timed), a well dressed woman with an oxymoronic air of driven purpose and casual apathy, seemingly glued to her blackberry, appears on the Watson's doorstep. Molly doesn't let the woman in at first—is, in fact, halfway through dialing Greg's number on the cordless landline she always takes with her to the door if her arms aren't full of Rosie—when her mobile goes off. It seems the DI has some rather impeccable timing. He doesn't explain why the woman's there or what all this is about but he tells her to listen and that Anthea's perfectly harmless—well, to you, at any rate—and there's enough of something in Greg's voice to tell Molly this is serious.
Anthea is let in. Tea is had. Molly begins to flounder for some small talk to break them into whatever seriousness this woman has come to give her—it's not another death, she knows that at least; Greg would be here if it was—but Anthea is mercifully direct. No chit chat. No ambiguous euphemisms. Just the facts. The horrible, horrible facts.
Her security clearance isn't high enough to allow her all the details (which is an altogether different sort of terrifying as Molly knows exactly what it has allowed her to know and do over the years) but Anthea tells what she can. A deadly criminal (worse than Moriarty, clearly, or Mycroft wouldn't have batted an eye at telling her everything) had taken Sherlock, Mycroft, and John hostage. Social "experiments" were conducted, at least five people were dead, a bomb threat had been made against her specifically, the entire phone conversation had not only been an attempt to save her life but had also been subject to an audience, and would you mind if we did a sweep of your home for all the surveillance equipment and to verify the bomb threat was indeed unfounded.
Molly thinks she's going to be sick as she nods.
Anthea sends a quick text and Molly assumes that should be the end of it but Anthea lingers, leaning back into the couch—finally taking up her cup of tea—and settling in as if she intends to stay; though she does not attempt to make conversation. Molly has no idea what to do with a strange woman nibbling bikkies and playing Words With Friends on an entirely new touchscreen she's produced from a pocket in her dress but it is quite literally the very last thing on her suddenly massive list of things to be deeply concerned about.
It somehow made it both better and worse to know the true circumstances behind Sherlock's cruel game. On the one hand, Sherlock hadn't set out to lie to her out of the blue and her life apparently meant enough for him to act his little "sociopathic" heart out. On the other hand, some anonymous villain may or may not have planted a bomb(s) in her home and had—without a single doubt—planted (rather extensive, as it turned out) surveillance in her home without her suspecting for even a moment.
Was she just completely oblivious to crime? First sweet Jim turns out to be an international criminal of the murderous variety and now this—whatever the hell this even is, Molly still can't even begin to wrap her head around any of it.
Worst of all, instead of recognizing when Sherlock was in danger—when she was in danger—instead of knowing something very clearly wasn't right, she hadn't noticed a thing—hadn't even suspected. She should have, though. She had known and put up with and adored Sherlock for years and years and years and she should have been able to distinguish between normal Sherlock weirdness and cruelty, and vastly abnormal Sherlock cruelty. The whole thing suddenly felt like her fault—though she knew that was more an old bad habit of hers rearing its ugly head than actual fact of the matter. (It was so much easier to deal with the world if all the faults were her own—then there was a chance she could fix them with enough effort.)
And yet, even knowing all this—even knowing Sherlock hadn't set up to lie to her in the cruelest way or had any desire to expose her long held open secret; her very heart itself—she also knew things couldn't simply go back to what they had been. She wanted to believe—to at least pretend to believe—that knowing the gruesome whys and whatfors of the matter would be a flip switched, changing their dark future to light. But her heart told her it couldn't be and she was so very tired of lies and false hopes; she could not bring herself to pretend.
The words had broken something in her, to hear a lie so blatant sound so much the truth—to know he could do that do her still, despite all their time and friendship—it hurt so much deeper than any cruel honesty he'd ever spat at her. She needed time away from Sherlock—time she didn't really have and likely wouldn't be afforded. She wanted space as well, wanted Sherlock and the constant reminders of the gaping wounds she'd earned by simply loving him well away from her; out of sight out of mind. But none of that was really on the table.
Rosie and John still needed looking after, Mary was due for some check ups and a review of her current "wellness plan" in less than a week, John's sister was planning to visit (and Molly was not half as convinced as John was on the subject of her sobriety and there was no way in hell Molly was going to leave a not-quite-two-year-old in the care of a sometimes halfway functioning John and his less than sober, don't-trust-me-with-a-hamster, recovering from yet another break up sister) and she was very much out of sick leave to utilize in any attempt she might make to avoid Sherlock.
No, she would have to learn to live with Sherlock, of course; she was hardly going to abandon her life's dream of Bart's and Sherlock was hardly going to abandon his favorite lab—he probably wouldn't even understand why she didn't really want him there anymore. And they were Rosie's godparents. And they'd likely bump into each other on occasion during Mary's visiting hours. And John still needed quite a bit of looking after which—of course—fell to her and would likely continue to fall to her even with John well enough to take up cases again. So, she would have to learn to live with Sherlock Holmes; her overly simplified desires of the sleep deprived early morning of simply cutting the man completely out of her life, dashed with a bit of thought and taste of reality.
Molly was not going to give up her life for Sherlock and she hardly expected him to give up his life for her. So then, she would have to start drawing very, very firm lines and building strong fences. She could not be Sherlock's romantic partner, she certainly did not feel counted as one of his friends, so she would make herself the most excellent of neighbors.