Hey! Had a ridiculously busy day yesterday so couldn't update.. I'm sorry! On with the show then.
Sherlock shifted uneasily, attempting to keep a cold mask of derision in place under his brother's scrutiny.
"So let me get this quite straight. You want me to not only keep Thomas out of miss Hooper's flat for another week, but you want me to waste valuable government resources to analyse some food stuffs that may or may not be poisoned? Why the hell do you think I would do that Sherlock? It's not as though the Hooper girl means anything to me."
Sherlock breathed deeply through his nose, fighting the urge to punch his oh so clever brother.
"Molly is ill. Last night she was screaming in agony, vomiting blood and had a vivid hallucination regarding Jim Moriarty. Those symptoms suggest poisoning. The only people with direct access to her flat are her, Tom and.. Myself. Despite what you might believe, I do not routinely poison the people I am close to Mycroft!"
"And why can't you get her to analyse-"
"Because she doesn't understand that she has been poisoned! She think it's just a stomach bug, that's she is ill. BUT SHE ISN'T, MYCROFT. I need to find out what is wrong with her and how to stop its progression. I don't want to have to beg you." His voice caught slightly as he raised his voice, a fact that didn't go unnoticed by his brother.
Mycroft observed him over the tips of his steepled fingers; taking note of the subtle changes sleeping with Miss Hooper had created. Almost gone were the shadows of doubt that had plagued his brothers eyes for years, his cheeks looked less hollow and he seemed a little more at ease with himself. Of course, he seemed restless and bored, hence, he presumed, the interest in the Hooper mystery. The thought that Sherlock might actually be interested in a.. Woman.. Made Mycroft vaguely uncomfortable. He'd always assumed the Holmes line would die out, since he would certainly never sire an heir and Sherlock; whilst being moderately more normal, still was unlikely to find a woman who would be able to put up with him. Even if a woman existed able to, he was entirely unlikely to see her in a romantic way.
"So? Are you going to help me, brother dear? If you aren't then I will just have to call in a few favours. Just imagine how the press will think of that, brotherly love really doesn't run thick in our family..."
"Fine. I will have your precious samples analysed. I assume that if we don't find anything you're going to get me more?"
Sherlock ignored the slight jibe.
"Make sure you run tests for every know poison, carcinogenic, drug and bacteria. There has to be something. I know there is something..."
"You know a thank you would be nice. 'Manners cost nothing, Sherlock'"
Sherlock smiled slightly, rolling his eyes at Mycroft's - highly accurate - impression of their mother. "Yes, well, thank you. I'll.. See myself out."
"Sherlock, what exactly is the nature of your relationship with Molly? You two seem awfully chummy recently, spending nights together, and now you're worrying about her health... I can't help but wonder when we can expect the announcement!"
Sherlock strode out, as Mycroft's laughter echoed down the corridor. Truthfully, he hadn't exactly thought about what Molly was to him. Useful, yes. She always provided him with bodies and a relatively quiet lab to conduct his more volatile experiments in. She was kind, putting up with his admittedly terrible treatment of her. Thinking back over the years, he felt a slight pang of.. Guilt? He was entirely unused to allowing himself to feel any type of sentiment that the feeling made him uneasy.
Making his way back to Baker Street, he vaguely noticed that his feet were so accustomed to turning left down Bond street towards Molly's that calling a cab felt almost foreign. Finally arriving at his flat, he was pleased to see that it was almost back to normal. His last case had -literally- erupted around him due to a cleverly concealed bomb that had exploded in the kitchen. He'd lost all of his experiments, which was unfortunate; though he doubted Mrs Hudson would see it that way. Luckily, his violin had survived, so he planned to bring it to Molly's with him later.
Satisfied that his flat was being put back together the he was used to, he stopped in to see Mrs Hudson on his way out.
"Sherlock, where are you staying? Is that brother of yours treating you right? I do hope he's put you up in a nice hotel or something. Your rooms will be ready by this time next week, I'd imagine. Are there any changes you want us to make?"
"No, I think…" He hesitated, considering a solution to the problem of just where Molly would sleep when Tom got home and Sherlock couldn't stay with her any more.
"Actually, yes. I'd like a new bed. A double. Mine is a bit small. Old. Creaky. I- I just want a new one. See to it, will you?" Pressing a kiss to her soft, wrinkled cheek, he replaced his scarf and coat, ruffled his hair and left.
The rest of the day passed excruciatingly slowly, waiting as he was for the results of the tests. He had briefly considered stopping by Molly's to surprise her, maybe get lunch… and possibly convince her to let him see what other bodies were in… when his phone finally vibrated.
It's happened again. Please come. Molly x
Sherlock stood staring at his phone, not quite understanding. By all accounts, any and all poisons should have been out of her system by now, unless she had been exposed to them anew. That left him with the possibility of it being either a gradual poisoning, over months or years – suggesting someone patient, that hated her and more than likely within close proximity a lot of the time – or a bacterial infection –in the sense of someone infected her- , resulting in repeated attacks of nausea resulting in blood.
Running for a taxi, he ran all the possible suspects and causes of her illness through his mind, continually being brought back to Tom. He was baffled by the cause; no poison he knew of caused the symptoms she was displaying. All the evidence he could see pointed towards… Cancer.
As far as he knew, it was impossible to cause cancer directly. Short of injecting extremely concentrated amounts of carcinogens directly into the blood stream repeatedly on a regular basis for a series of months, or years-
Five dead bodies rose to the forefront of his mind palace. Five dead bodies of varying weights, age and physical condition. All with stomach cancer. Killed before any discernible symptoms appeared. He filed the knowledge away, not quite certain he had found a connection between Molly and the five cadavers lying unclaimed in the morgue. It seemed too- outlandish, really. Who would go to all the trouble to cause such a vicious strain of cancer, over months, years most likely in the case of some, just to murder them before the cancer killed them? By all accounts it was ingenious. Who would link someone dying of stomach cancer to murder?
Finally arriving at her apartment building, he rushed up the stairs, bursting through her front door. He found her just inside the bathroom curled pitifully in a foetal ball, shuddering with every gasped breath. Kneeling beside her, he wrapped his long arms around her vulnerable frame.
"I'm sorry Molly, I should have been here, I shouldn't have taken so long. I shouldn't have left you alone..." He took a deep, steadying breath to calm himself.
"W-we should go.. to John. L-like you s-s-said last night. Oh, god!" She wrenched away from him, elbowing him in the jaw in her haste to reach the toilet before violently heaving again. The sickening sound of blood dripping from her open mouth into the water beneath her echoed around the small bathroom. Tenderly brushing her hair away from her face, he held onto her shaking shoulders as she continued to wretch, murmuring quiet encouragement with every laboured breath.
Taking out his phone, he called John.
"Sherlock? What's wrong?" John's tinny voice rang loud with concern.
"Can you come here? Please? It's Molly, she's sick, poisoned, I don't know but please come I think.. I don't know what to think. Please help me. John, I don't know what to do!" He tightened his one armed grip on Molly, as she slumped brokenly against him.
"Woah, Sherlock, slow down. Where are you?"
"Molly's flat. You know where that is. Just - Hurry." He threw the phone, not caring where it fell. Scooping her up, he stood, looking for a blanket to wrap around her. She seemed to have shrunk, appearing as small and delicate as a child. To see her so... Defeated, made him unreasonably angry. He moved her to the bed, removing all their clothes in the process. Modesty be damned; the quickest and most reliable way to warm her would be for them both to be in the bed, skin on skin. He wrapped the duvet around them, rubbing his hands all over her, trying to create some friction between his hands and her skin. Her head lolled against his chest, breath coming in short, erratic gasps.
"Sherlock?!" Johns voice reverberated up the hallway. Relief surged through his body.
"In here!" Desperation tinged his voice, as her breathing had seemed to stop upon John's arrival.
"John, please! She's - She's not breathing." Opening her mouth, he breathed deeply into it, trying to stimulate her natural impulses. Tense minutes passed this way, John checking her vital signs, Sherlock determinedly forcing air into her lungs. Finally, after two minutes that felt like hours, she choked in a wavering breath.
Hugging her to him closely, he fervently whispered into her hair.
"Don't you.. Ever do that to me again. Promise me, Molly Hooper."
Beautiful dark eyes met brilliant ever changing blue.
"I promise."
And over for another day. What's wrong with her? Or rather, just how serious is it? Feel free to message me about any grammatical errors, I have to beta it myself :L
