Chapter Four

Hitting The Road And Breaking In

Molly rolled the window of her old Fiat 600 down, allowing the cold air to refresh her warm face. With all the excitement she had forgotten to remove her knitted cap, and if she was honest to herself it wasn't all that cold. Not enough to wear a cap anyway, but she loved that one dearly. It had been a present from a friend she had met at college, for her 22nd birthday and Molly smiled as the memory of the party she had had that year came to her. She had no idea what had happened to that friend, only that she had moved abroad, and Molly wondered why it seemed that all her friends ended up leaving, in the end. She had a handful of them, and she was not complaining, but at times she felt lonely. Most of her friends were now married, and had a family and that wasn't very handy when she needed someone to go to the movies with, or just to go out and have dinner. They did that once in a while, but not as often as Molly wished they would.

She removed the cap and placed it on her lap, looking at the road ahead. The car was behaving better than she had expected. It had been purchased more as a whim than as a necessity, and with London's wide transport network it was simpler and cheaper for her to use the subway to move around the city. The dark blue colour was scratched in places and the boot was very small – so small that most of her bags were now packed in the backseat. Nevertheless, she loved that car and sometimes she used to take it for a ride outside of London, just to keep it going and to do something she loved so much but didn't have much chance to do: driving.

The key to the cottage had been obtained a few days before, delivered to her by the lawyer who had taken care of all the paperwork and inheritance demands. She had now in her possession the papers that cited to whom the house belonged. It was weird to own something she hadn't purchased, and she wondered what the cottage must look like live. She had seen pictures but they don't always make things justice. She was excited and relaxed and she couldn't remember feeling like this in a long time. She wasn't even thinking about her job, nor Sherlock. Well, not as much as usual, anyway. She was going to have a peaceful month, with no drama nor self-pity, but amongst plants and flowers and renovation tools.

On the passenger seat, inside a proper cat carrier, Toby meowed languidly and Molly smiled, looking at him.

"Bored already?" she asked, because like any animal owner, she talked to her cat more often than not, even if he couldn't answer. "It's not such a long drive. I'll let you out when we get there."

She was glad Toby was not the sort of cat that stayed in all day, but always returned. This way she didn't have to worry about him disappearing as she did her things in the cottage, which had been one of the reasons she had decided to bring him along with her. Her friends would take care of him, if she asked, but his company was always welcomed and she enjoyed her monologues more when they were directed at the cat.

The radio was playing very low and as a ray of sun hit the window shield a new song began, one that Molly recognised well. She smiled and then turned the radio up, tapping with her fingers on the wheel and singing, in a deliberately out of tune voice, 'Hit the road, Jack,' which seemed quite appropriate for the moment.

Asking Lestrade nonchalantly if he had any idea where Molly had disappeared to had been a lot more difficult than Sherlock had supposed. Lestrade made him a lot of questions about it, with a snide tone to his voice, until finally confessing he had no idea where she was gone, nor that she had left the hospital to go on vacations, so he couldn't help him. Sherlock had repeated three times that he was only wondering because he needed Molly for a case, and by the end of the call he was sure Lestrade had never doubted that; he was just amused at how hopeless Sherlock seemed without Molly's help. Sherlock didn't like to hear that. He as capable of solving murders all by himself, even if he did prefer John's company to do so, and even if Molly's help was precious in making things go faster. But he was not hopeless without her, in any sense. When Sherlock hung up the phone he could still hear the mocking laughter on the other side of the line. Lestrade could laugh all he wanted, but without Molly his case was going to take longer to solve, so he was the one who had all to lose. Sherlock was doing this more for fun, to keep himself busy, but Lestrade's job depended on figuring out who the murder was.

Sherlock sighed and looked out of the window, wishing it was evening already. He went back to his microscope and he lit up a cigarette, that he let burn completely to ashes without touching it once.

When the evening came and the city turned on its lights Sherlock went to his room and changed clothes. If he wanted to be stealthy he might as well take all the precautions. He changed his white shirt for a black one and put on a black scarf instead of his dark blue. He left the house and took a cab, leaving a few streets before Molly's house. Before reaching the front of her building he turned left. He didn't want to be seen near her place, so he took the long way to the back of the building. Luckily, the street was deserted and had almost no movement, just a back alley used mostly by garbage trucks and dog's owners on their daily walks. He moved steadily, not in his usual imposing manner, but much more discreet. Anyone who'd see him now would even say he looked smaller, less peculiar. He waited a moment, leaning against a wall, and looked around. The building in front was also the back of another building, and only one light was on at the top of it. Luckily, the streetlamp right beside Molly's window was turned off, most likely burned out. Sherlock realised that jumping from the stairs to the balcony without making any noise would be difficult, but he wasn't going to back off now. If he jumped as he was planning to he could crouch for a moment before checking for unwanted looks. It was worth the try.

He went up the metal staircase carefully, holding with both hands and walking fast but making sure not to make much noise. He levelled himself up with Molly's balcony and then looked down. If he fell he would be quite done for. He shook his head, refusing to think of it, as it brought him no advantage and he focused on his movements. He climbed a few more stairs, to be able to jump downwards, positioned himself, and finally took the jump.

The distance wasn't big, but he fell with a thump against the cement floor of the balcony, his feet first, and he tried to plunge his hands forward to help the fall, realising he wouldn't have a chance to do that. His elbow went first as he lost his balance, and even though he was crouched he fell on his side, hitting with his upper arm on the ground. He waited for a moment, but there was no sound. He stayed there a bit longer, his shoulder holding his weight, and then slowly he raised his body from the ground, still sitting. He didn't seem to have called attention to himself, even after the loud sound of his feet hitting the floor. Good. The last thing he needed was to have someone calling the police. Still sitting he removed his tools from his jacket's inside pocket and picked the ones he needed to open the back window. It was a sliding window and usually it should be a difficult sort of window to open forcefully, but unfortunately for Molly, Sherlock had experienced on this exact window to practise his skills many times before, so to open it now was a no brainer. The window's lock clicked and Sherlock made it slide, still careful and silently. He extended a hand to remove the curtains to the side and then he closed the window shut again. He did not intend to leave through here.

The house was silent and dark. Sherlock knew his way around pretty well and the light that entered through the kitchen window provided enough illumination to allow him to walk without tripping on anything. He could see contours and shapes. It was all very tidy, in place. Molly was not as disorganised as Sherlock but he had seen her house on many occasions, and she always kept books around, everywhere: on the couch, on the kitchen, over chairs. Right now, they were all in the big shelf that covered the back wall, right above the black sofa. Sherlock approached it and noticed a few volumes missing. Mostly romances and novels, light reading that Sherlock deduced Molly had taken with her wherever she had gone to. He inspected her room, but there was not much to see. She did have books over her night stand, all tidied up in a pile, three of them with bookmarks, but those were technical books, medical ones. He didn't want to fumble through her things unless completely necessary. He checked the bathroom – her toothbrush was gone, but her perfume was still lying there, next to the sink, as well as some bottles of shampoo and shower gel. Her flat was small and only the kitchen was left to see. The kitchen was separated from the living room only by a counter and Sherlock took a step forward and entered it. It was meticulously clean. He noticed something new, though. There was a new picture on the fridge, held there by a heart shaped magnet. He picked it up, his hands handling the magnet and putting it back in place, and he held the picture in his long fingers. It was a cottage. Sherlock turned the picture around and on the back, in Molly's handwriting, there was a quote.

'"There are far better things ahead than any we leave behind." C.S. Lewis.'

She had drawn a heart at the bottom of it, and Sherlock frowned. He turned the picture to face the image of the cottage again and he tried to recognise the place. There wasn't much to guide him, he realised. He put the picture back in place, making sure he left it right as it was, though he was sure Molly wouldn't notice any small change. He sighed. Whatever that place was, he knew now that that's where Moly went.

Sherlock pulled his phone out of the pocket and for the third time that day he tried to call her. The phone went once again directly to voicemail, Molly's message encouraging whoever is calling to leave a message and that she will contact them very soon. No other information. Sherlock bites his lip and scoffs in frustration, wondering if Molly left deliberately to avoid him, if she would call him back had he left her a message and if so, if she would return at his request. No, he realised, if he wanted Molly to return he would have to find where she was and go get her.

He looked around, realising with a heavy heart that there was only one way for him to find her current location. He took a picture of the cottage's photo with his phone and then sent a message to Mycroft. It was all for work, he reassured himself. His mobile rang a few seconds later and he picked it up, reluctantly.

"Why on heard do you need to know where this is?" Mycroft asked, amusement in his tone.

"None of your business," Sherlock replied. He realised immediately that the answer had been a mistake, because he would not need to be so defensive if it had no importance. He could have just said that it was for a case. He shut is eyes closed, cursing himself and then answered, more friendly, or at least as friendly as he ever talked to his brother. "It's for a case."

He could hear Mycroft smiling on the other side of the line.

"A case called Molly Hooper?"

Sherlock opened his eyes in surprise. How could Mycroft possibly know that? Before he could answer his brother continued. "She's in Sussex. The cottage is an inheritance. Why do you need to find her?"

Sherlock frowned.

"How on earth do you know that?"

"I keep your friends close, Sherlock. Just in case. Can't risk anyone using any of them against you, can I?"

Sherlock scoffed.

"I thought you'd be delighted with anyone doing exactly so."

Mycroft smiled.

"Yes, but mummy would kill me if I wasn't careful enough to assure that you are safe with all the means I have. God knows that that would be far kinder than having to deal with her anger."

Sherlock knew Mycroft kept a strict surveillance on Baker Street and on John, but he had no idea he did the same with Molly.

"What about Lestrade?" Sherlock asked, trying to divert the subject of the conversation for now. "Do you keep an eye on him as well?"

"I said all your friends, some more than others."

There was a tone in Mycroft's voice that Sherlock could not identify but he had other things to worry about at the moment. "Do you have the address?" he asked.

Mycroft sighed.

"Yes, I do. I'll send it to you in a moment," There was a short silence as Mycroft measured his words. "Has it occurred to you that maybe one of the reasons she left was because she wanted to get away from you?"

Sherlock found it strange that Mycroft was touching the subject; he was not given to talking about such mundane matters like Molly's infatuation for him.

"No," Sherlock lied, "It hasn't. She has no reason to get away from me and I need her to get me something at the morgue. The guy who's there now replacing her is a moron and I have a case to solve."

"Sherlock…"

Mycroft's tone was almost patronising.

"Don't Sherlock me," Sherlock cut, "Send me the address and don't think about this anymore. I'll take care of things my way."

Mycroft acquiesced and as Sherlock was about to hang up, he added.

"Yes, you will, won't you? Or maybe things will take care of themselves for you."

Sherlock didn't even waste time replying to that. He hung up and a moment later, as he was exiting the building through the main door, he felt a buzz in his pocket. He memorised the address straight away, and rushed to find a cab back home.

"Mrs. Hudson!"

Sherlock's voice echoed around the room, loud and clear. He heard rushed steps and saw Mrs. Hudson's figure as she entered the room.

"You're going to wake up the neighbours!" she complained.

Sherlock got up and looked at her, deducing her daily activities straight away.

"You've been cleaning today haven't you?" he came closer to her, and Mrs. Hudson stepped back a little. "You're wearing your cleaning clothes and you didn't finish a long time ago, since you haven't changed yet, you only had time to make some tea."

Mrs. Hudson looked at him and answered. "Yes, I have in fact. It was a mess. It's a shame, Sherlock, you receive your clients and they get in and the house is all upside down, filled with dust and…"

"Where is it?" Sherlock asked, looking around again. "I threw a paper to the floor this morning, right here," he pointed at the spot, "And now it is gone."

"Well, I have vacuumed the floor, haven't I? If you threw it away I probably got it in the vacuum cleaner's bag."

"Go get it!" Sherlock demanded.

"I can't go get it!" Mrs. Hudson retorted.

Sherlock approached her again and held her arm.

"Mrs. Hudson, that was important. Go get the bag."

"I can't!" she almost shouted. "It was full, I threw it away."

"Then we need to look in the garbage, don't we?"

"No, because I took the trash out today, they must be collecting it this evening."

Sherlock heard the sound of a truck as it pulled outside and without wasting any more time talking to Mrs. Hudson he rushed down the stairs. The truck was still collecting a few garbage bags from other houses and Sherlock realised what he was about to do. He recognised Mrs. Hudson's garbage and he opened the bag carefully, disgusted. He needed to find the vacuum cleaner's bag and he hoped that it had been one of the last items she had thrown away. Luckily, it had been. He turned the lid of one of the trash cans around and then started to empty the contents of the bag into it. He found what he was looking for easily enough, put the bag and all the dust and dirt that had been inside it back into the garbage bag and then closed the trash can, but this time, getting much closer to Sherlock, the dustman were looking at him with curiosity. He didn't stay to explain it to them and he shook his clothes to remove all the dust from them, before storming up the stairs again. Mrs. Hudson, who was more than used to Sherlock's endeavours, had retrieved to her own flat. Sherlock looked at the clock, wondering if it was too late to call, but decided that it wasn't. He inserted the number written down on the paper into his mobile and it rang four times. When the man on the other side of the line picked up, Sherlock spoke.

"Mr. Abney? I'll take your case."