You won't get another update out of me until Monday at least, sorry but there's only so much procrastinating and pretending the rest of the world doesn't exist I can do before the world knocks down your bedroom door and demands that you at least try to remember what grass looks like...not that I'm like that at all... Okay, so I do not own Sherlock, reviewers get invisible imaginary cookies, and thank you so much for taking the time to read this.
Normalcy had been achieved at last; at least, that's what she decided to convince everyone around her of. She had Robert send flowers to her old flat repeatedly, and pretty much go down the checklist of obsessive stalker traits before he sending his final note. A suicide note did nicely, scrawled on a piece of paper quickly, and shoved into the mailbox of her old flat. She made sure it was erratic and impulsive, making it seem like it was written before a man matching Robert's general description threw himself off a bridge. Several weeks later, that body was fished out, and even though Sherlock had his reservations, the DNA (switched by Molly) was a match, as was the time of death. The puzzle pieces fit closely enough together that he let it go.
The broken fingers on her hands, while weakened and sore, had finally healed, and Molly was able to resume business as usual. She remembered when she was given her job description, and how she was expected to fake years of training within a couple months. It was one of the reasons she made Molly so shy and insecure; shy and insecure people expected to make mistakes, therefore did, and perpetuated their own misery in doing so. Certainty may have been an absurd concept, to paraphrase Voltaire, but it helped to at least pretend. Actually, strangely enough, she liked the job. It brought stability to an otherwise constantly moving, constantly double checking, and constantly uncertain life.
If she had actually grown up in England with fairly normal parents she probably would have ended up a pathology lab assistant or possibly even further as a pathologist. It was sometimes easy to get the two mixed up, as she often performed tasks that weren't entirely in her job description. Sherlock pretty much treated her like a normal pathologist. She could let her mind wander around a bit, as she only had to depend on daily visits from John and Sherlock for her information. They pretty much gave it to her, letting her in on their little games without thinking about it. Sherlock would act, simply getting what he wanted, but John would explain. Usually the explanations matched up, and she stored them away.
"Molly, I'm going to need Mr. Patmore!"
Suppressing a sigh, she stood up and gestured towards the morgue, "He's not there anymore."
"What?! Why not?"
"His body disappeared—I got a bit of an earful this morning and—"
Sherlock cut her off, already stalking away. John gave an apologetic shrug and smile. Molly weakly smiled back. Poor, Mr. Patmore was stabbed six times on the way to his flat. The mark of the killer was an X drawn across the body post mortem. Two had died while Molly was recovering, their faces in the pictures staring up at her as she took her morning tea. On the Sherlock Scale, this had to be at least an eight, as while the killer was messy, he was meticulous not to leave any sort of evidence. A smart serial killer was yet another puzzle.
She received a text from Robert: Ups say he's too close. Take gun. Address to come. Danger.
Sherlock could recall a slightly similar situation, though this time he received the short end of the stick so to speak. This man was very much fit, extremely intelligent, and the gun was very much real. Also, John was incapacitated, so a last minute save on his part was entirely unlikely. He was both handcuffed and taped with expert precision, and she stared up at the serial killer, trying to school himself into boredom, despite the fact that a million theories, questions, and scenarios were running through his head.
"So what now?"
The man laughed, "You're the great Sherlock Holmes, why don't you deduce what happens?"
"I'd like to save some time." He refused to let himself look at John, groaning on the cold warehouse floor.
"Well, great detective, I'm going to kill you!"
"Well then. Go ahead." Sherlock shrugged the best he could through his restraints.
He pointed the weapon in the direction of Sherlock. The bullet would go directly through his brain at this point blank range, tearing through the delicate organ he prized. It was easier to think about the results rather than the actual dying part. Sherlock really didn't know how to feel about that so like most unknown feelings, he chose to ignore it, staring up at the killer. At least his death would lead the police no matter how stupid to the killer, as he had carefully written the name discretely and put it in his pocket. His killer didn't like disposing of his bodies, and didn't rifle through pockets. That would be his downfall.
Suddenly, in one instant, the skylight was opened and a shot was fired. Before him, the killer dropped dead, having received a shot near the heart. Of his savior, Sherlock could only barely see a feminine form and a ponytail before she quickly left his range of vision.
The first time she ever shot was to kill. The gun was there, her father was dead, she felt his blood pooling soaking her socks. There was no time to think. She picked it up and shot that horrible woman three times. She had been nine at the time.
This time, it only took one clean shot before her escape.
Molly rolled her eyes at her own stupidity. Really, the tiniest taste of freedom, the tiniest idea that life could be restored to some semblance of normal was completely ridiculous. Sherlock would most likely be able to deduce that she was female, but it wasn't Sherlock she was worried about. She stared at the camera that had caught a full view of her face, and the gun in her hands, unable to do anything to erase the image. She was only there to acknowledge that she knew he was watching, before continuing with her escape, sure to return to St. Barts hours before Sherlock would. She hadn't bothered to key herself out, and everyone would assume that mousy Molly was simply doing something else every time they sought her out. Even the hospital security wouldn't know she was gone, but that one single camera on the warehouse caught her.
It was only a matter of time before Mycroft Holmes would be requesting her presence.
Four years of careful consideration destroyed, simply because Sherlock had to chase a criminal who had no love of games or gloating. She just barely arrived in time to save both him and John. The consequences of failing were much too high for her to examine too closely. Gathering information was one thing that was easy. Pretending to be a completely different human being was also fairly easy. But chasing around the person you're tasked upon while doing the aforementioned, and keeping him from getting strangled, blown up, eaten by wild dogs, or managing to somehow kill himself with nicotine patches was considerably harder. This was the first time she had been caught though. She had no idea how this could possibly play out in her favor.
Only two hours later, when she was taking a walk to the grocery, a town car pulled up, and a man got out. She slipped in before she was told to, and was driven to a completely random place. It was a parking garage, she noted, with cameras absolutely everywhere. It made Molly uneasy, as she stuck her hands in her pockets, and approached the figure that loomed before her, facing away, with his hands clasped behind his back. It was Mycroft Holmes in the flesh.
"You catch on quickly." He stated, "As for who you are…well this is a surprise, isn't it Miss Hooper?" He turned towards her, grinning amicably despite the situation.
"I prefer Molly, thank you."
"Well Molly. I looked into you. Molly Hooper, age thirty-one, no living relatives, history of cancer in the family, pathology lab assistant and associate of my brother's. Oh and you're separated from and going through a dreadful long distance divorce with a Canadian citizen. Of course, all of this is false. You're not English and aside from being Molly, your prints aren't in any system, you're good about not getting caught on camera, and you've been other people before. I'm assuming you figured out a way to delete your existence every time. You specialize in information. How close am I?"
"It seems you get the one thing Sherlock always misses."
Mycroft leaned forward, "How long have you been watching?" He seemed almost giddy by this discovery, excited by the prospect of someone he had completely failed to see up until she made her first error.
"Guess." If Molly allowed him to indulge in this little game, then it would be possible that a deal could be struck. She liked deals; in fact she lived off of them.
"I'd say five years."
"Very close, I must admit. My employers wanted me to be thorough in the investigation."
"I see. Now what was the purpose of gathering information?"
"No idea."
"Really? A spy of your caliber, trained in the art of subtle observation and intelligence and also most likely a very curious individual, has no idea who her employer is after half a decade in their service? I'm rather disappointed unless…oh unless you're not telling me. But why would you protect your employer? Surely you know what I can do. What do they have?"
"Money." It was a simple enough answer, and the main reason most people got into the business.
"I have money. They have leverage." Mycroft was clever, much too clever for her liking.
"I must say you're of the brilliant sort. Now can you tell me what that could possibly be?"
"No except you confirmed that leverage existed. So far, your employers only want you to watch. You saved my brother, was that part of your orders?"
"I assumed I'd be out of the job if he got his brains blown out." She tried to avoid shrugging yet again, and instead leaned against one of the columns.
"Fair point. So watching him is your idea of a stable job. You won't let harm come to him, simply because the money would stop coming in, and whatever leverage they have would be used against you?"
"Precisely." There was no need to dodge this answer, or answer a question with a question.
"Then for now, I do not see you as a threat. But if your employers ordered you to kill him or let him die, would you?"
"Depends. For that, I'd take back said leverage, and disappear."
"They haven't offered?"
"No, and I don't think they're going to."
"I could help you, you know, if you told me what the leverage is."
It was very tempting, but she couldn't appear too eager, "I'll give you a week to find out. If you do, I'll allow you to help me, and no harm will come to Sherlock if I can have anything to do with it. If you can't, well let's just carry on as per usual. Deal?"
"Add telling me your employer's motives and it will be."
"If I know them, I will disclose them." She promised, knowing that promises meant nothing in this business. With that, she took her leave.
She was fixing herself dinner when her mobile buzzed.
A message specifically for the cell number she gave Mycroft appeared. It had only been three days. Curious, she removed herself from the room and peered at it. A little girl, about the age of ten or eleven, with mousy brown hair and large blue eyes stared back at her. For the first time in years, she felt herself be stripped of all other personalities but her own as she sank down to her knees, barely making use of the countertop in order to remain sitting up. Somehow she managed to swing wildly from relief to panic to sheer anger within the course of a minute before she calmed herself enough to read the message attached to the photograph.
Leverage: Toronto Canada. Get on the next plane out.