Summary: This chapter begins where Chapter 2 ended. We're back to Sherlock's POV a few moments after he hits the airbag. Molly comes to the rescue, one more time. -GW
The hard part is over, but staying dead until Mycroft comes to get him is proving to be trickier than expected. The outside entrance to the basement was unlocked, as arranged, but the unused storage room where he stowed his change of clothes is not. He can't go back outside, obviously. His homeless network team dispersed immediately to avoid being pulled in by the Yard as witnesses. He's on his own.
The basement entrance opened into a corridor, and the storage room is just 10 feet in, but this is as far as he can go. He's stuck in the open with blood soaking most of his hair, and dried streaks of it all over his face. With all their planning, they had overlooked the simple precaution of a few wet wipes in his pocket. It hadn't occurred to them that he wouldn't be able to get into his changing room immediately without being seen. The turned up collar won't hide anything, but the scarf might. He takes it off and stretches the width as far as it will go, then wraps it over his head and across the lower half of his face. Not exactly low profile, but it will probably hide most of the gore if someone happens by.
He tries Mycroft using the disposable phone he gave him, but the call goes directly to voice mail. The corridor he's stranded in is not normally busy, but it *is* used periodically throughout the day. He can't afford to wait. He dials Molly's extension in the morgue.
"Molly Hooper's desk."
It's a woman whose voice he doesn't know. That means she probably won't know him either, but he pitches his voice half an octave higher than normal, just in case. "I'm looking for Molly. Is she available?"
"She's busy at the moment. May I say who's calling?"
"Tell her, it's Lowell," he says, using the first name of the man whose body they, and Moriarty, used to stand in for him.
Molly comes on the line almost immediately. "What's wrong? Why are you calling me?" Clearly, she picked up on his code.
"I'm impressed, Molly," his voice is back to his normal register. "And I'm stuck. The storeroom is locked. I can't get in."
Silence for a beat. "I'll be there in two minutes."
It's closer to five minutes when she comes around the corner, out of breath and focused on a large ring of keys in her left hand. "Sorry, I couldn't find the janitor." She continues sorting through the keys, slips one into the lock on the door, and clicks it open.
Footsteps suddenly approach from the opposite side of the corridor junction, too close and too fast. He quickly pulls Molly inside with him and closes the door. There are no windows in the storeroom, and he can't turn on the light until their position is secure, so the only illumination comes from the light seeping around the edges of the door. He can make out Molly's silhouette, but no detail. He assumes she has the same limited view of him, so there's no point in placing fingers to his lips to hush her, and making the sound itself is counterproductive. He wishes he'd had time to either leave her in the corridor, or tell her not to make any noise.
The scarf is smothering him with a combination of blood and wet wool. He slips it off and stuffs it into his pocket. The coat and scarf and everything else he's wearing will remain with Mycroft. He won't see any of it again for a very long time.
The footsteps stop just outside the door. A moment later, they hear the scratch/pop of someone striking a match followed by the satisfied exhale of cigarette smoke. Molly sniffs her distaste, and Sherlock nearly 'hushes' her in spite of what he'd told himself a moment earlier.
He knows precisely how long it takes to sneak a cigarette, and it's eight minutes more than he can afford to waste standing here in the dark. He's about to try calling Mycroft again when loud voices farther down the corridor seem to startle their squatter. They hear him swear softly and run out the door Sherlock had come in. They wait to see which direction the approaching voices will take. When it's clear that they're heading away, he hears Molly exhale.
"Cover your eyes," she whispers, "and I'll turn on the light."
He hears the click, and squints into the sudden glare. A few seconds later, Molly gasps.
He realizes how he must look. "I'm all right, Molly. It's the blood you gave us to use, not mine."
There's a sink in this room, which is one of the reasons they chose it. "I need to clean up."
"My God," she says softly. "This is what you let John see?"
He frowns at her, surprised. "What did you think the blood was for?"
She shakes her head. "I knew what it was for, I just didn't think it would be so..." She closes her eyes for a moment. "John saw you like this. Up close."
He frowns again, but this time it's at the memory she's just conjured up. It wasn't supposed to be like that. What he could see and hear of John's reaction was not what he expected. It was-
"Sherlock?"
"Yes. Up close." He moves to the sink and turns on both taps. There's a soap dispenser attached to the wall that probably has-
"Is he all right?" Molly has followed him to the sink. She's standing just behind him on his right, and she waits until he looks at her in the mirror before she continues. "I saw him. From the window." Her eyes begin to glisten, on the brink of tears. "I *tried* to tell you."
He shuts off the water, impatient with her mystifying persistence. "You tried to tell me *what*, exactly?" He turns to face her.
"He could barely stand, Sherlock. I *knew* he would react this way, and I tried to tell you." She looks away, but not until she adds, very softly, "You broke him."
He quickly turns away, back to the sink and his interrupted task. The hot water tap is putting out cold water, but he doesn't have time to wait for a more comfortable temperature. He needs to remove the blood from his face and get dressed before Mycroft gets here. And he certainly doesn't have time to indulge in this pointless exercise. "Don't you have to get back to your lab?"
He bends over the sink and scrubs at his face with wet hands, then straightens to assess his progress in the mirror. Molly meets his gaze, and her expression confuses him. She seems vaguely pleased. "What?"
"You didn't look away fast enough. I saw your eyes."
He's exasperated now. "Molly, I really don't have time for this." He pulls a handful of paper towels from the dispenser and starts blotting the water from his face.
She looks down at the floor. "No, you don't have time for any of us. I know that, but-"
"You know that's not what I meant."
"-John isn't one of *us*. He deserved better than what you just did to him."
He pulls the plastic bag from the top shelf where he left it earlier, and pulls out a large hooded sweatshirt and anorak. From the corner of his eye, he sees Molly watching him.
"I saw your eyes," she repeats. "You didn't believe me about John before, but you do now. You heard him scream your name when you jumped. That's what it sounds like when you rip out someone's heart."
*I heard you, John.*
He pulls the mobile from his pocket and checks the time. "Molly, I appreciate your help more than you know, but Mycroft will be here in less than ten minutes."
She's studying him the way she did in the lab yesterday.
*You look sad, when you think he can't see you.*
"We're not giving up on you, Sherlock. No matter how condescending and mean-spirited you get. But you have to stop pushing people away before you really do end up alone."
She walks to the door and puts her hand on the knob, then turns to smile at him. "Please come back safe." She opens the door and heads back to the lab to pick up whatever task he interrupted.
*That's what it sounds like when you rip out someone's heart.*
He takes off his coat and carefully folds it into a neat bundle, sleeves tucked in so they won't crease, and slips it into the plastic bag, trading places with the anorak. He pulls on the sweatshirt and raises the hood to cover his hair, then puts on the anorak. There's probably blood on his coat, and it will have to be professionally cleaned. He has two more that are seemingly identical, but this is his favorite. He should have worn one of the others for this. Removing the blood will erase the scents that have accumulated. Faint traces of tobacco smoke and Irene Adler's perfume. And John's cologne. Their coats always end up next to each other somehow: hanging on the rack in the hall, or tossed on a chair. Or side by side on their respective owners. He's never checked, but he imagines John's coat has a bit of Sherlock's scent, too.
*I know what that means, looking sad when you think no one can see you.*
He can't correlate the data. John not only believed him about not caring enough for Mrs. Hudson to rush to her death bed, he had hated him for it. There was no mistaking that. How does that fit with his emotional meltdown less than an hour later? Guilt? Regret for the fact that their last contact had been so contentious?
He can't imagine any two people with less in common than Mycroft and Molly, but they both had raised the same concerns about John watching him jump. With Molly, he had chalked it up to her natural sentimentality. When Mycroft said the same thing last night, it should have raised a red flag.
He has questions that need to be resolved before he can leave London. Mycroft won't like the delay, but a few more days won't make much difference now. Moriarty is dead, and his criminal network isn't likely to accomplish much without him. He just needs to dismantle it before some enterprising mastermind-wannabe slips in and takes over.
*I saw your eyes.*
He will stay long enough to make sure John is all right.
The phone vibrates in his pocket. It's a text from Mycroft telling him he's late. He doubts Mycroft meant to be funny, but it makes him smile.
The late Sherlock Holmes slips out of the room, out of the building, and officially out of his life.
End of Chapter 4