Hello! One more chapter for the weekend. Again, this chapter contains major spoilers for His Last Vow, and follows it very, very closely.
The Conners will not appear very often until the end of episode three, and even then, only bits and pieces. I'm trying my hand at writing the main show characters more, and I'm happy with the results.
Let me know what you think. :)
I do not own Sherlock.
Chapter Seven, In Which a Rose has Thorns
Janine had not minded when Sherlock said he'd be out for a week or so on a case. He'd warned her that he was going undercover, and that it involved drugs and some less desirable places in London (that was what people in relationships did, after all – let their 'loved ones' know when they'd be absent for an extended amount of time). She'd frowned for a moment, but then the flirty spark was back in her eyes, and she made a saucy remark about something dirty that Sherlock faintly recognized as a pop culture reference. So she was taken care of.
He didn't tell anyone what he was doing. Not Mycroft, not John, and certainly not anyone else he considered a friend. In this case, alone protected him as strongly as it had when Moriarty was alive.
He was strong enough for this.
Molly received a text as she was testing the blood of a woman who was suspected to have died from a peanut allergy.
Molly, have you seen Sherlock lately? – John
Molly frowned as she typed a reply.
No, hasn't been around for weeks.
And in all honesty, she was quite all right with that. Things had not been going well with Tom lately, and that last thing she needed was Sherlock around deducing her relationship status and taunting her with thoughts of light eyes and dark curls and what could never be. She didn't blame him – this was her own fault, this time.
But still, as much as she was relieved he wasn't here elevating her pulse and creating heartache, she did miss him. She'd grown stronger around him the two years he was "dead", the few weeks he stayed with her after his fall. When he left England with a simple thank you, Molly Hooper, and she hadn't heard from him in months, she'd dated, and moved on, and found Tom, and it was lovely. Even when he returned, she found herself less intimidated and more sure of herself around him. She was proud of herself, and she really did consider him a friend, despite the pain of unrequited love in her chest she had become better and better at squashing.
It was unusual for him to be gone for so long. Usually, when there wasn't a case around, he was finding a way to get himself into trouble in her lab, or pestering her for body parts. She trusted completely that he could take care of himself – his two year stint taking down Jim's web of criminals proved that – but she did worry about him. It was probably nothing, and it wasn't really her business at all anyways, but she bit her lip and sent John another reply.
Everything all right? – MH
John wasn't really worried about Sherlock. He was a grown man, for goodness sake. He had a knack for getting himself into trouble, but he was certainly capable of taking care of himself. When Mary had pointed out that they hadn't heard from him in nearly a month, and Sherlock didn't respond to any texts, he decided that maybe he should make sure Sherlock wasn't starving to death because he'd been too lazy to go to the grocery. Mrs. Hudson had let him in, but he wasn't anywhere to be found. The flat was a mess, as usual, but it looked like he hadn't been there in a while. It was odd. Probably on case, of course, but John had to admit he was a bit put off that Sherlock hadn't bothered to ask him to come. He was married, after all – not dead.
After receiving no answer from Mrs. Hudson, John texted Lestrade and Molly, just to be sure. Neither had heard anything from him in weeks, and that made him more irritated than he was before. He assured them both everything was fine – it was, it wasn't like there were any maniacs threatening London anymore – but John Watson did have an uneasy feeling about it all. Sherlock had been a bit off since he'd dashed out of the library over a month ago. He didn't tell John what it was all about, and he'd recovered soon enough, but afterwards he'd spent two days in his mind palace and then almost a week traipsing about London without explaining what he was doing.
John rolled his eyes and went home. Sherlock would contact him when he was good and ready – he was done chasing after him like he was a missing dog.
John was awoken the next morning by a pounding on the door. Not a pounding, really – more of an urgent knocking. He opened it to see their neighbor, Kate Whitney, crying on the front steps. She looked a complete mess.
"I know it's early," she sniffed, trying very hard to hold herself together as Mary shuffled into view, pulling her robe on. She broke into muffled crying, and the only word he could make out was "sorry" as she placed her face in her hands.
"Is that Kate?" Mary asked, concerned.
"Yeah, it's Kate," he said looking between his wife and neighbor.
"Invite her in?" Mary prompted, giving him a look that he clearly understood as John, let her in now, don't leave her crying on our doorstep.
"Right, yes, of course – d'you want to come in, Kate?" He held the door open for her, sleep and worry still clouding his face.
A few moments later, with tea on the table and Kate composing herself on the sofa, John and Mary sat waiting to hear the reason for their neighbor's distress.
"It's Isaac," Mary said, slowly rubbing small circles on Kate's back, sympathy etched on her face.
"Isaac – your husband?"
"Her son," Mary corrected quickly, giving him another look.
"Son, yeah." John said, trying in vain to rub the fog of sleep from his face and mind.
"He's gone missing again," Kate hiccupped. "Didn't come 'ome last night." She shook her head in disbelief.
"The usual," Mary sighed.
"Is there drugs, then?" John said, beginning to understand. He was so very glad his wife was a morning person.
"Uh, yeah, John, nicely put," Mary said, as Kate broke down crying again.
"Well," John said, confused, "Is it Sherlock Holmes you want, then? Because I've not seen him in ages."
"A month," Mary corrected.
"Who's Sherlock Holmes?" Kate asked, drying her eyes with a tissue.
"See?" Mary asked, giving a sideways glance, almost smug, to the woman next to her. "That does happen."
Kate sighed shakily. "There's a – a place they all go to. Him 'n his – friends. They all – do whatever they do…" She paused, and then added tearfully, "Shoot up. Wha'ever you call it."
"Where is he?" John asked, realizing that he was probably going to have to do something about Isaac himself. In fact, he wanted to do something about Isaac himself.
"S'a house. It's a dump," Kate answered, her words getting angrier and less worried. "It's practically fallin' down."
"No, the address."
Kate looked between John and Mary with wide eyes.
"Where, exactly?" John asked again, his blood already turning to adrenaline as he realized what his offer was about to entail. A month without Sherlock had been a very tame one, and his body – all right, him – all of him - craved the excitement.
He didn't expect Sherlock to be there. Of all the places, of all the things, he did not expect Sherlock to be there. It was a peculiar feeling, feeling so many things at once. His stomach turning in disgust and dropping to his feet in disbelief and his heart leaping into his throat in betrayal and pain and – well not shock, really, he'd known Sherlock had a problem with drugs in the past – but – okay, it was shock. The bloody fool. The idiot. What the hell had he been thinking?
Molly was on her coffee break when she received the call. It had been a lousy week. She and Tom had agreed to break off the engagement. They both agreed to it, but it still hurt, and she was dreading telling everyone. She was glad that she hadn't seen Greg, or John, or Sherlock in weeks, and was especially glad that she hadn't seen them this week. It had been a lousy week. A completely lousy week, and Molly just knew it couldn't get any worse.
It did.
John Watson's name flashed on her cell's caller I.D. She sighed, not wanting to take it. You'll have to face them all sooner or later. Best get it over with. Besides, he may not even be coming to the morgue. Maybe he'll just want to ask about Sherlock again.
But she knew, really, that John would've texted – he only called to warn her when he and Sherlock were about to impose on her hospitality. And she didn't want this, not today, but again – best to get it over with.
"John?"
"Molly?" A female voice asked from the other end of the line. John's wife?
"Er…yeah. Is this Mary?"
"Yeah. Sorry, love. We need a favor." She sounded apologetic.
"Oh?" Molly was certainly confused now. "Is it…is it about the baby?"
"Oh! Goodness, no. Baby's fine. We're fine. It's…well…Sherlock needs a favor."
"Okay." She said, her heart beginning to race. "What does he need?"
"A drug test."
Molly's heart froze for a moment, her mouth open. There had to be some mistake. She'd known, of course, that Sherlock had had problems with drugs in the past – from both the telltale scars and Greg's stories of old Sherlock. But that was not her Sherlock – her Sherlock was brilliant, and good and brave and he jumped off of buildings to save the people he loved, and even if one of those people wasn't her, she still counted. He caught criminals and he was never stupid – maybe socially inept, but never stupid. Drugs were stupid. Taking drugs was the epitome of stupid behavior. And Sherlock was not stupid.
But Mary had said they'd needed a drug test. There was still hope – maybe – maybe he'd just been undercover. Maybe he hadn't taken any. Maybe…
"Molly?" Mary's voice sounded worried on the other end.
"Sorry. Yeah. All right. A drug test. How far are you?"
"Ten minutes, at most."
"Right. I'll have it ready."
"Thanks."
After the call had disconnected, Molly sat blinking at her phone for a few minutes. She realized her hands were trembling. Stupid, stupid, stupid. The word seemed to be following her around more than ever. Falling in love with Sherlock – stupid. Going out with Jim – stupid. Dressing up for Sherlock at Christmas – stupid. Dating Tom, despite the fact he looked like Sherlock – stupid. Falling in love with Tom – stupid. Agreeing to marry Tom because Sherlock would never come back, and certainly would never come back to her – stupid. Spending time with Sherlock after he did come back – stupid. Grinning like a fool at John and Mary's wedding as he said the most perfect best man speech ever, complete with solved murder – stupid. Seeing him leave, sad, and not going after him – stupid. But it would have been stupid to go after him, too.
Molly sighed, and began to prepare the drug tests. She was no longer going to be stupid when it came to Sherlock Holmes. She loved him, and she would always love him, but she could be smart about it. She could be his friend. She could protect her heart.
Sherlock was angry. He was angry with John, for finding him at the drug den. He was angry with Billy, for letting John in in the first place. He was angry with Magnusson for being an immoral blackmailing monster, and maybe – just maybe – he was angry with himself.
He swallowed and eyed the ceiling as Molly finished the tests. He knew, of course, that he was dirty. He was dirty all over, and as he was on the comedown, he felt it. He felt the heaviness of his unwashed hair and the stubble on his cheeks. He felt the stinging of the puncture wounds near his veins and the itchiness of his skin. He felt the sour taste of his breath and the oppressive stink of his own unwashed body. He could even feel the grime and grittiness of his clothing.
All of these he had felt before. But this time, he also felt dirty inside, and it wasn't just the diminishing feeling of the drugs coursing through his blood. There was also an unfamiliar feeling of – remorse? Guilt? Something odd, like he didn't want John, or Molly, to know the results.
Which was ridiculous, of course. The whole point of this drug den relapse was to convince Magnusson that he was not a threat, and how could he prove that if no one knew about his 'relapse'?
He could hear Molly peeling off her gloves angrily behind him.
"Well?" John asked, voice short and tense. He already expected the answer – already knew –
"Clean," Molly answered, her voice soft and low and surprisingly calm.
John pursed his lips and crossed his arms in acknowledgement. Molly was lying – of course – because officially, he had to be clean, to continue working on cases – and if he didn't have cases, he'd probably wind up right back –
SLAP.
John looked on, angry approval on his face, and the rest of the little group looked up in shock as Molly gave Sherlock a good, old-fashioned, open-palmed, lady-like blow across the face. And then another. And another.
As Molly's hand connected with his face, the first thing Sherlock noticed was that her engagement ring was gone. He suspected this might happen, after first meeting Tom, and especially after the meat dagger incident at the wedding.
The second thing he noticed was the pain on his face. Molly had a surprisingly strong arm.
The third, and unexpected thing, he noticed was the pain in his chest. He supposed this slapping was an appropriate, or at least typical, reaction given the circumstances. He had just expected John to be the physical aggressor, in this case. He certainly had been when Sherlock rose from the dead. The fact that it was Molly slapping him…it was just unexpected. Unexpectedly painful.
"How dare you throw away the beautiful gift you were born with and how dare you betray the love of your friends. Say you're sorry."
The anger flared up again, this time directed at John and Molly, John and Molly – who didn't understand, who didn't get that this was just for a case. Did they really underestimate him so? Did they truly believe he would just throw away his gift and everyone he cared about? Perhaps he had disappointed them, but they'd disappointed him, too.
"Sorry your engagement's over, though I'm very grateful for lack of a ring." Sarcasm laced his words as he rubbed the sting out of his face. Strange, that it didn't rub the sting out of his chest as well.
But his barb at Molly's expense didn't send her cowering away like he'd expected.
"Stop it. Just stop it." She was still staring at him earnestly, hurt and anger welling up in her dark brown eyes.
And then there was John, pacing angrily, shaking a hand in his face – "If you were anywhere near this thing again, you could've called – you could've talked to me." And his eyes, filled with equal amounts of hurt and anger.
Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Please do relax. This was all for a case." He didn't usually repeat himself, but – he wanted them to understand.
"What kind of case would need you to do this?" John asked incredulously.
"I might've asked you why you've started cycling to work."
John laughed in disbelief. "No. Nope. We're not playing this game."
But they did. John Watson really was an addict to intrigue, action, and adventure, and the little deductions Billy Wiggins made proved it. He'd been waiting for the next adventure, but Sherlock was not sorry that he hadn't called him in on this one. Now that John had found out about the drug den, however, it might be a bit more difficult to shake him. He'd be watched like a hawk. And despite Sherlock's misgivings with Magnusson, John could certainly handle himself. Perhaps he wouldn't try to force John away for the rest of this case. He could use the company.
Sherlock's phone beeped, and he smirked as he checked it. "Finally!" He muttered.
"Finally what?" Molly asked, in that same hurt, low voice.
"Good news?" Billy asked, still nursing the sprain John had given him.
"Ah, excellent news. The best - " he said, glancing up at Molly, then at John, earnestly, willing them to understand that public knowledge of his drug use was good news for his case, because even though he wanted to push them away for the time being, he didn't want them to give up on him. " – the newspapers have gotten wind of my drug habit. The game is on!"
And he was grinning, still partially high, as he exited the lab doors with a flourish. "Excuse me." He looked back, "For a second."
After Sherlock had left, followed shortly by John, Mary, and the two others with them (John had thanked her curtly, still angry with Sherlock, and Mary had hugged her, eyes filled with sympathy and worry), Molly was left alone with a tube full of Sherlock's urine and a lab to clean.
Molly tried not to, but as she cleaned, she couldn't help but think back to the day when Sherlock had told her that she counted, that she'd always counted, and the chaos in the month that followed.
She's been surprisingly calm all day. Watching Sherlock fall, throwing the dead body, performing the false autopsy, holding John's hand with tears in her own eyes, watching John's back as he was led away by Lestrade – she's been remarkably calm. But now she's exhausted, and a bit nervous, because Sherlock said he'd be in and out of her flat for the next few weeks, to tie up loose ends here before leaving for who-knows-where to tie up loose ends there.
But he's not there. Nor is there any sign that he'd been there. She sighs, whether in relief or disappointment, she's not sure. She locks the door behind her, and automatically bolts the chain, but then thinks better of it and leaves the chain hanging, in case Sherlock meant what he said before and really will be at her flat later.
She also curses herself for it, because heaven knows she's done enough already, but she leaves out some biscuits and fruit, and things to make tea on the counter, and sets out a pillow and blanket on the sofa for him, just in case.
When she wakes the next morning, an apple is gone and there are tea things in the sink, but the pillow and blanket are untouched. She doesn't have much time to think about it, though, because Greg's calling her and apologizing profusely but she needs to come in and give a statement.
When she returns, she jumps a little at the sight of Sherlock in her armchair, eyes far away as he thinks about who-knows-what. Then she notices the yellow roses on the table.
Half smiling, half frowning (is such a thing possible? But it feels like that's what her mouth is doing), she mumbles 'hullo' and hangs up her coat and scarf, eyes still on the yellow roses. She's wondering if she's hallucinating, because surely Sherlock Holmes wouldn't buy anyone flowers, even if they did help him fake his death.
"Molly." There is both greeting and warning in his voice.
"What? Sorry. I didn't – I mean – what?"
"Don't read too much into it. The person I was…watching happens to own a flower shop as a cover business. I had to buy something while I was in there. Though, I suppose I should say thank you. Yellow is your colour, if I'm not mistaken."
Of course he's not mistaken. He probably deduced that ages ago, but if not, the décor in her flat has probably alerted him to that fact. Still, she smiles, because he didn't have to buy yellow roses - he could've bought a cactus- but he thought of her, and said his own version of thank you, and it made her heart warm.
He left a half-wilted rose (probably picked it up off the street) with the note he scrawled on a napkin – Thank you Molly Hooper – before he left, as well. She'd cried for days when she realized he wasn't coming back. And then she'd moved on. Apparently, she hadn't moved far enough.
After introducing John to Janine and the altercation with his brother, Sherlock was on edge. Still on the comedown, he knew he needed to sort the rubbish from the past few days out of his mind palace. So he began.
When he got to the memory of Molly slapping him, he paused for a moment. He realized he probably didn't have the emotional and mental strength to delete it yet, because his body reacted every time he tried. He'd have to delete it once he was clean again.
He paused again, as his chest tightened and stung. He had not expected Molly Hooper to have thorns. She was a delicate thing, but she had her own defenses, and he'd never expected that she'd use them on him.
