Friday, 12 Mar 2010

Molly Hooper was just as charming as her house, answering the door with a nervous smile. "I'm Molly. Molly Hooper. You must be Mrs. Hudson. Thank you so much for coming," she said, welcoming Emma inside.

"Oh, it's no trouble at all," Emma assured her, allowing Molly to take her umbrella and raincoat. Emma set down her heavy bag, saying, "I thought I'd left early enough, but the traffic was simply terrible."

"No, it's — It's fine. I do have to go soon, though. Let me show you around," Molly offered.

"Don't be silly, dear. You run along. I can find the tea, and I brought a nice lunch — Sherlock's favorite."

Molly would have lingered, being hospitable and making herself late to work, but Emma managed to hurry her off with reassurances and smiles she didn't feel. Ever since her unexpected, late-night meeting with Detective Lestrade, she'd been almost sick with worry for Sherlock.

"You have my number, and yours is on the refrigerator? Perfect," Emma said. "Don't forget your umbrella. Have a nice day."

As soon as Molly was gone, Emma locked the door, picked up her bag, and went into the living room. She looked around to take stock of the situation.

Sherlock was sprawled on the sofa, wearing a terribly rumpled suit that was covered in fur from the cat that had taken up residence on his chest. The cat's eyes were closed; Sherlock's were open, staring blankly at the ceiling. A pillow and comforter were piled on the floor nearby.

It felt somehow wrong to her that Sherlock was here, rather than back at home where he belonged. Years ago, after dealing with her little problem in Florida, he'd stayed to help her pack and move back home, though with the haphazard way he dropped things in boxes and got distracted by the most unlikely objects... well, she wasn't convinced he'd sped things along at all.

She'd seen the loneliness in him, though he took pains to hide it. So as soon as her last tenant had moved out, she'd offered the flat to Sherlock right away. They could both use a bit of company.

She still wasn't certain that this was the best place for him, though. His flat was full of awful, dangerous things, but they were his awful, dangerous things. And while Molly seemed like a nice girl and the detective cared, Emma was perfectly capable of looking after Sherlock herself. The two of them obviously hadn't made much progress. It looked like he'd been wearing that suit for a week! And there was his laptop, on the coffee table, without the cable plugged into the back.

Emma sighed and put down her bag. "Sherlock, it's one thing to make a mess of your own flat, but must you do it to that poor girl too?" she scolded, walking right over to him. Apparently scolding Sherlock for making a mess was automatic, she realized — even when things were disturbingly tidy. The distinct lack of clutter was a clear sign that Sherlock was doing poorly.

She found the overnight bag she'd packed for him, still zipped closed. "Up, Sherlock. You're ruined that suit enough already."

When he didn't budge, she poked at his arm, insisting, "Get up!"

There was no protest, no vicious glare — just a worrying sort of blankness that stayed on his face like a mask as she tugged on his arm to turn him over.

Emma had to physically shove at him to get him to sit upright. "Up, Sherlock. On your feet right this instant," she ordered, but he just stared towards the coffee table as though not even seeing it.

He rose only when she pulled him upright by one arm, scattering cat fur everywhere. "Oh, Sherlock," Emma sighed, picking up the overnight bag before herding him towards the loo with little shoves. Once he crossed the threshold, Emma set down the bag and reached up to take hold of his fur-covered jacket.

"Off with it," she ordered, tugging the jacket over his shoulders. He didn't fight her, but he didn't help, either. "If you insist on staying here, at least get changed into something more comfortable. Otherwise, I'll take you home, but not until you clean yourself up. No taxi driver would let you near his cab in that state."

His only answer was more of that disquieting silence.

For the first time, she hesitated, wondering if this was going too far. Sherlock was so proud, so concerned for his dignity... But he was also just standing there, so deep in whatever he was thinking that he hadn't even looked at her.

The day he'd moved into Baker Street, Mycroft Holmes had given Emma a business card with nothing on it but a phone number. "For emergencies," he'd said, and gone on to explain Sherlock's trouble with drugs and his mental health issues.

This certainly qualified as an emergency.

Emma looked up at Sherlock, his dirty hair hanging in lank curls over his eyes, the front of his rumpled shirt covered in fur, his face tight and drawn. She thought about his brother, handsomely dressed and obviously well-off, speaking of Sherlock with such emotional detachment that they might as well have been strangers. And she thought about the handsome detective coming to Baker Street at an ungodly late hour to fetch Sherlock a change of clothes, and about that pretty little Molly opening her home to Sherlock. They both cared.

Sherlock didn't need emotional detachment. He needed friends who loved him, despite all his efforts to push them away.

She took out the clothing she'd packed for him, piling it neatly beside the sink. "Let's get you comfortable," she said, starting to unbutton his shirt.

She made it through three buttons before he looked down. When he lifted his hands to continue, she stepped back, pleased to finally see a sign of life from him. "You finish changing. I'll make you a cuppa."

She firmly closed the door and went to poke around the kitchen. She filled the kettle and found the tea, while she listened to the water run in the loo. How long had he been lying about like a great lump, worrying poor Molly and Detective Lestrade half to death like that? She fixed the tea and made some toast; she knew Sherlock well enough to guess he hadn't eaten any time recently.

Emma had the table set by the time Sherlock came out of the loo, dressing gown hanging loose over his pyjama bottoms and T-shirt. He'd probably left everything on the floor; she'd get it later. She couldn't help but feel a bit disappointed that he was choosing to stay here, rather than going home, where he belonged. But he'd made his choice, so she just called, "Sherlock! Come sit down. I've made you toast."

He stopped and glared over his shoulder at her.

She'd faced down fiercer opponents during the War; besides, glaring was a definite improvement over that terribly blank expression. She pointed imperiously at the table.

Sherlock sighed and dragged his feet to the table. Not looking at her, he sat down, picked up a piece of toast, and took a bite.

Satisfied that he was eating, Emma went to tidy up the nest he'd made of the sofa. She turned the cushions (finding a couple of pound coins, which she set on the coffee table, and a ragged stuffed mouse with a bell, which she tossed on the floor) to rearrange them more comfortably.

She was just snapping the blanket out to fluff it up when movement caught her eye. She looked out into the backyard in time to see a man let himself in the alley gate. He was in grey coveralls and one of those yellow rain jackets with bright silver stripes, and he was carrying some sort of electronic device in one hand.

Their eyes met, and he gave her a pleasant nod and a smile as he crossed the yard and went around to the side yard. Always wary, she kept an eye on the yard until she saw him come back around the corner. He looked back at the house, and she nodded, just in case — no harm letting him know she was watching. He just gave her another nod and a wave before he headed out the back gate once more.

Satisfied that it was nothing peculiar, she shook the blanket out and spread it over the sofa. "You really should sleep in a bed, dear," she said, addressing Sherlock's back. He remained hunched over his plate. "It's not good for your spine. Any doctor would tell you that."

His head came up abruptly, making her wonder what she'd said to make him react so sharply.

Then he went back to eating, more slowly this time. He said nothing, so Emma gave up on trying to draw him out of his silence. Instead, she fetched her plate and sat down opposite him. There was plenty of time for conversation later. Right now, she thought she might as well enjoy a nice quiet lunch.

Molly was at her desk, trying to close out one last file before letting herself think about going home, though it was pointless. She'd probably be back in tomorrow (unless Sherlock needed her) and even if she weren't, the paperwork would still keep piling up. No matter how late she worked on Fridays, it seemed that Monday mornings always started out with a foot-high stack of files on her desk. Sometimes it felt as if all of her medical training time would have been better put to use learning how to properly type and file.

When someone tapped on her door, her heart sank. She looked up, exasperated at the thought of more paperwork, and feeling just a bit guilty, because a knock on her door almost always meant someone had died.

"Oh!" she said, startled. This time, she was wrong. Greg walked in, smiling reassuringly in a way she'd never before seen. When he needed information from her about an old investigation, he always frowned. When he had a new body for her to examine, his face was always closed and expressionless.

"Sorry to bother you, Molly. I was here, so I thought I'd pop by, rather than going straight away to your place — if you still want me to help with Sherlock, that is. We could share a taxi."

Molly looked to the stack of paperwork on her desk and considered sending him alone, but then decided she deserved something of a break — and perhaps Sherlock needed them both. "I'd like that," she decided, standing.

"Great. That, ah, bag I gave you yesterday morning... Still have it?"

She nodded, trying to hide her curiosity. She'd been wondering about it on and off since she'd put it in the freezer, but she'd kept her promise and hadn't looked inside. "It's in the other room," she said, standing.

"I'll get it. You get your coat on — it's raining like mad. Which drawer?"

"Bottom left, against the far wall, where we store the other... um, not-whole bodies," she said more slowly, fetching her purse from the drawer.

"Ta, Molly," he said, disappearing as quickly as he'd come.

Now she was even more curious, but she wasn't about to chase him down. She shut down her computer, locked the desk with the keys from her purse, and then put on her coat. Out in the hall, she made sure to lock her office door, pausing for a moment as she recalled the times that Sherlock had broken in — three times, actually.

She headed for the biostorage room, but almost walked right into Greg as he came out of the incinerator closet. He wasn't holding the paper bag. He smiled at her, a surprisingly relaxed, handsome smile, and asked, "All ready?"

Molly considered asking. It had to have been biological evidence of some kind — blood or tissue or something he'd found somewhere — and now he'd burned it. He was happy that he'd burned it, which meant that when he'd collected it, he'd been thinking that something bad had happened. She knew it had something to do with Sherlock, but she couldn't for the life of her imagine what. It had been a long week and then two days of worrying and no decent sleep.

She looked at Greg steadily for a long, quiet moment, before she decided that yes, she did trust him. He was a good detective, never asking her to spin a pathology report to match his theory of a crime. He was a good man, dropping everything in his life to come help a friend.

Molly nodded and buttoned her coat, smiling up at him. "Let's go."

Lestrade couldn't remember the last time he'd had a home-cooked meal. He rarely had the time and his wife had stopped trying after their first year of marriage. Even then, she'd been much better at pasta than at the roast, Yorkshire pudding, and sprouts that Mrs. Hudson had laid out on the table as if this sort of feast were an everyday occurrence for her. Maybe this was why Sherlock lived at Baker Street — so he could raid her fridge. He certainly didn't keep anything edible in his.

"This is fantastic," Lestrade told Mrs. Hudson, once he remembered his manners and stopped eating long enough to smile at her.

"It really is," Molly agreed.

Mrs. Hudson practically glowed at the compliments. She turned, nodding in the direction of the sofa, where Sherlock was once more nested. She'd somehow gotten him up long enough for him to change out of his suit and into his dressing gown and pyjamas.

"It's his favorite, but... Well, at least I got him to have some toast and tea this morning," Mrs. Hudson said with a little shrug. She seemed disappointed, but Lestrade couldn't help feeling a bit impressed.

An awkward silence fell as they all turned back to their plates. Lestrade looked at Molly, seeing the way she was frowning. Poor girl was still in love with Sherlock. She'd probably be a while getting over him.

"So Molly, any plans this weekend?" he asked, trying to distract her. He needed to think about his schedule, at least for the next few days. At some point, he should probably call his wife and see if they could reach some sort of peace accord, or at least a cease-fire arrangement.

"I — Oh —" Molly stammered, giving him a wide-eyed stare.

"Oh! No, I mean —" He shook his head, realizing what he'd sounded like. "I can stay with Sherlock, if you do. Or I can take him back to my place."

Molly shook her head, staring fiercely down at her plate, cutting a slice of roast beef into tiny squares. "No, it's — it's okay. It's probably a good excuse not to go to the office tomorrow."

"He could come back home," Mrs. Hudson pointed out.

Lestrade hesitated, wondering how to avoid offending Mrs. Hudson. Did she know even half the hazards squirreled throughout Sherlock's flat? Besides, there was no way Lestrade would let Sherlock go back there without a thorough search for hidden drugs.

"I was going to see my nephew on Sunday," Lestrade said, clumsily trying to change the subject.

Molly seized on the excuse. "You have a nephew?"

"Yeah, my older sister's. He's nine."

"Oh, they can be such a terror at that age," Mrs. Hudson said fondly.

"Don't remind me. Last fall, we were at my brother-in-law's family's place, and he got up into this chestnut tree with his cousin's doll. She's fussing and crying and pointing up, so we all see he's out on the end of this branch, and he's tying the doll to the branch with his shoelaces, daring her to come and get it."

"Little boys can be awful," Molly said with an indignant huff.

Lestrade grinned at her. "Yeah, well, once she'd made sure he was in trouble with the adults, she stopped crying. We're all shouting for him to get down before he breaks his neck, and he's up there, laughing his — uh, laughing at us all, when suddenly he lets out this shriek like he'd got bit. My sister starts telling her husband to go up in the tree after their boy, because something's attacking him."

"One of those grey squirrels?" Mrs. Hudson asked.

Laughing now, Lestrade shook his head. "Better. Turns out his cousin had hold of his slingshot, and she's down around the other side of the tree, pelting him with conkers — still with their spikes on."

"Good for her!" Molly cheered over their laughter. "I always wanted —"

"Shut up!"

Molly dropped her fork with a gasp, Mrs. Hudson twisted around to look towards the living room, and Lestrade got to his feet, chair scraping over the linoleum, all of them shocked at hearing Sherlock's voice for the first time in two days. He was standing on his feet, glaring at them all as he pushed his hands into the wild tangles of his hair.

"Shut up, all of you! I'm trying to think!"