Sherlock had not been euphemistic about being physically connected to her at all times. Molly supposed she had found it romantic for the first few days, maybe even the first week. He showered with her (essential, he insisted, also soapy and sexy and thus acceptable to her); he followed her from room to room; he stood next to the kettle while she made tea, his chin resting on her shoulder; he read her forensics journals with his legs spread over her lap as they sat on the sofa; and he slept tangled up with her every night (this, she didn't mind). She wasn't allowed near the windows and had to ask him to open one if she wanted some air. If she left the flat, she required his arm around her at all times and at least two of Mycroft's agents trailing them. Even the tabloids grew bored of pictures of Sherlock with his arm around Molly's waist; in public, he never had it any other bloody place, she fumed. He trailed through the food hall of John Lewis with his hand in her coat pocket. She tried throwing tinned goods to him, but he just caught them with one hand and dropped them in the basket, refusing to relinquish his hold and staring at her with amused determination.
After 17 days of being watched over by Sherlock, quite literally every minute of every day, Molly was going spare. She tried to hide from him but couldn't make it past the threshold of a room without his shadow. She considered drugging him, but just couldn't do that to an addict whom she loved.
Sherlock pulled Molly along behind him as he worked, in and out of Greg's office at New Scotland Yard, following every tip about the women's murderers. Now Greg was sitting on the sofa at Baker Street, leaned forward intently over his knees, arguing the significance of the locations where the three bodies had been found.
"North in Angel, west at Hyde Park, east at Shoreditch – we're worried about south, one more murder, and it was supposed to be Molly," Greg asserted, not for the first or even the fifth time. Molly wished that she could leave the room and get on with some reading elsewhere, but no, Sherlock had pulled John's chair alongside his and had his fingers linked between hers.
Sherlock gaped at Greg, as if unable to believe anyone could be so irrationally thick. "An 8-point star and a five-point star on every body… why do you think these killers are only looking to murder four people? If they are recreating a map, then I think a pentagram is more likely, but the 8-point star seems to have significance as that is carved while the victims are still alive."
"All the bodies have been discovered on unconsecrated ground, all in white, all unmarried women who are being drugged into miscarriage on the off chance they're pregnant… it's clearly some sort of cult," Greg continued over the same ground they had covered for the last 17 days. Molly wanted to cry with frustration.
Sherlock's phone and Greg's buzzed text alerts simultaneously. As one, they both pulled phones out of the jacket pockets and then looked at her. "Another body," Sherlock breathed.
"Bunhill cemetery," Greg added, standing. He stood up and pulled on his leather gloves.
"That's Old Street, hardly south," Sherlock pointed out. "This is not the last. There will be more than four."
Sherlock released Molly's hand momentarily to snag her coat off the back of the door. He held it open for her in clear expectation; Molly sighed and approached Sherlock, turning to let him help her on with the thick woolen coat. When he spun her back around by the shoulders and started doing up the buttons like she was in nursery, she batted his hands away. "Yeah, I got this," she snapped. He raised an eyebrow at her but simply pulled his own coat off the peg and pulled it around him. His arm snaked around her to its familiar position on her hip. Her eyes pleaded with Greg to put her out of her misery.
Greg smiled and held out his arm. Molly eagerly looped her arm through his and started towards the stairs. She was pulled up short by Sherlock's iron grip.
"It's okay, Sherlock, I've got her," Greg placated him. "I promise I won't let anyone snatch her on the way to the squad car parked outside."
Sherlock's eyes flashed something a bit uncomfortable in her direction, but Molly tried not to notice. She gave him a big, open smile and tilted her head to one side to convey sincerity. "Sherlock, it's fine, we're just walking down to the stairs." She honestly wasn't trying to make him jealous, but she hoped that Greg might let her go and just stay close, rather than insisting she be touching him continuously. Sherlock swept out of the door ahead of them without a word. When he rounded the landing of the stairs, Greg dropped his arm and let her go. She rolled her shoulders and stretched at the freedom. Greg laughed and said, "I'll allow you your freedom down the stairs, but he'll kill me if I step out the door of the flat without a solid hold on you."
Molly smiled. "He looked like he might kill you for touching me at all."
They both trod down the stairs, Molly enjoying her temporary freedom, until they rounded the landing themselves and ran into Sherlock, waiting with an impatient foot tapping and an accusatory glare. "Neither of you taking this seriously. We are going to view the body of another woman who has been murdered and it could have been you," Sherlock reached out for Molly's hand, and she gave it to him willingly. "I know it's frustrating and limiting, but you're still breathing and she's not."
Greg slid past them on the stairs and left Molly to close the distance with Sherlock, laying her hand on his chest and pressing her lips to his neck. "I'm sorry, you're right of course," she leaned her head against his shoulder. "This has got to be hellish annoying for you, too, and I'm not making the situation any easier. I am scared, Sherlock, and angry and cross about that. I can't be easy to live with right now, especially when you can't escape."
Sherlock pinned her with his gaze. "Easy is not a concern. I just want you safe. I will do whatever it takes, for as long as it takes."
She held his hand thankfully all the way to the backseat of the squad car.
…
Irene Adler appeared from nowhere at Bunhill Gardens, like a ghost from the ancient gravestones. She carried a bouquet of lilies and stepped as close to the body as the police tape would allow. Sherlock was crouched near the body, sifting for evidence while gripping tight to Molly's left hand. He looked up from his study of the victim's fingernails and surveyed Irene. She was dressed almost demurely in a white wool coat and soft green scarf and long black boots; she had twisted her hair into a softer bun, and looked like nothing more than a grieving relative. A wealthy grieving relative, given the diamonds visible in her ears and on her right wrist.
Irene ignored Sherlock altogether, moving instead to Molly, who was so engrossed in noting down her preliminary findings that she hadn't noticed Irene's arrival on the scene.
"Dr Hooper," Irene drawled sweetly in a voice so calming it could send infants to sleep. She held out one gloved hand to Molly, intending to help her rise. Molly switched her focus from the victim to Irene. The pathologist felt too grimy to take the hand of such a creature. Nevertheless, she reclaimed her left hand from Sherlock and snapped off her latex gloves. She accepted Irene's hand and the older woman pulled her up with a surprising strength. Sherlock didn't seem minded to protest the lack of physical contact with himself.
Irene stepped into Molly's personal space and brushed some leaves and grass from Molly's coat. She reached out and adjusted Molly's hair as well, smoothing her hands over the pathologist's shoulders and arms as she did so. "Lovely Molly, may I call you Molly?" Molly nodded her assent. Irene used the lilies to gesture to the body. "There but for the grace of God…" she began.
Sherlock snorted from next to Molly, having stood up without either of the woman noticing. He had his hand possessively around Molly's waist, pulling her a step away from Irene. "Neither God nor grace has anything to do with your presence here," he said sharply.
Irene looked to Molly imploringly, with tears shining in her eyes, and she took back the step that Sherlock had taken away. "This woman," she nodded to the victim, "was Eliza Cunningham. She was the girlfriend of Jacob Hayes, a well-known and very successful businessman in Liverpool. She has always lived in London; they've been together for over a decade but never shared a home." Irene sniffed slightly. She reached for Molly's hand and gave it a comforting squeeze. "I knew her quite well. She worked for me once, long ago, long before she met Jacob."
With Sherlock jealously tugging her into his chest from behind and Irene staring quite openly at her mouth in front of her, Molly could almost feel a menage a trois coming on, one that she wanted no part of. Irene was mesmerising. Still, Molly knew when she was being played, having had so very much practice at being played by Sherlock. She raised a skeptical eyebrow at Irene but spoke with compassion. "That's awful. I'm so sorry you've lost a friend. Does Jacob know?"
"I'm not worried about that man, Molly. He was never good enough for Eliza," Irene moved in even closer, her lips almost touching Molly's, her thumb gently caressing Molly's cheek. "I'm worried about you."
Sherlock yanked Molly back a full long stride, causing her to lose her balance and stumble back against him. "Yes, well, that makes two of us. Sorry for your loss. Please give the details to the police, they're right there, bright flashing lights and all that, can't miss them. Good-bye, Woman."
"Sherlock, don't be like that," Irene scolded. "You know you need my information."
"The police, as I said, are right there. They have notepads and recording devices. Talk to Donovan. She's both competent and single, as I don't consider that Andersen actually counts."
Molly struggled free from Sherlock's grasp and pitched forward gracelessly, nearly toppling into Irene. Irene smiled and politely ignored any clumsiness. She put her arm around Molly leaned to whisper in her ear: "I know they've come for you before, but they're coming again."
"Who? Who exactly is doing this?" Molly demanded clearly, unfazed by Irene's closeness.
Irene shook her head, a tear slipping down her cheek. Molly found herself running her own thumb across Irene's perfectly made-up cheek to catch the tear. She was certain that she could hear Sherlock's shocked disapproval.
"I don't know who it is," Irene answered, her voice a bit wobbly. "I feel like I've let these four women down, and now you…"
Irene dropped Molly's hand as Sherlock barged between the two women. "Irene, off to the police now. There's a good dominatrix. Donovan awaits."
Irene stepped back, handing the flowers to Molly. "You'll leave these with Eliza for me?" she asked tearfully.
"Right, yes, of course," Molly nodded.
Sherlock tugged Molly close to his side and placed a small kiss on her neck. "Are you okay?" he asked her softly.
"I feel like a pawn. It's not a particularly pleasant feeling. You won't let go of me, Irene wants to fuck me and some mad cult wants me dead."
"I also want to fuck you," Sherlock added, as though for accuracy. He hugged her tenderly by way of apology for the comment. Then he held up an evidence bag. "Eliza fought back. We may have some DNA from an attacker from under her fingernails and inside her mouth. She bit someone, as well."
Molly placed the bouquet at Eliza's feet. "Thank you, Eliza. We won't let them get away with it. We'll find whoever did this to you," she whispered.
"Let's find Lestrade and get back to Baker Street," Sherlock gently pulled her towards the gates of the cemetery. Molly looked back over her shoulder at Irene, who was giving a statement to Donovan. Irene waved, but the look on her face was deadly serious. "Stay safe, Dr Hooper," she called across the gravestones. Molly shivered even though Sherlock had an arm around her shoulders.
…
Mrs Hudson set down tea and sandwiches in front of the grateful DI Lestrade back at Baker Street. Donovan and Andersen had arranged for the evidence and photos to go back to NSY while the body was transported to Bart's. Greg had rung through to Merseyside to have them contact Cunningham's boyfriend; the detective inspector was relieved that delivering the awful news would not be his job this time. He would head up to Liverpool this evening, after going over the evidence one last time with Sherlock.
Molly brushed a few sandwich crumbs off her skirt as she stood up from her spot in John's chair. The two men had been arguing for 10 minutes now and she felt very little had been accomplished. They would all need to await the DNA evidence from the crime scene. She wished Greg would leave for Liverpool; Sherlock was becoming increasingly cross and she was physically bound to Sherlock for the foreseeable future. She didn't need him in a mood to top it all.
She wandered to the kitchen to put her plate in the sink. Sherlock made to get up and follow, but she held her hands up in defeat. "I'm coming right back," she said.
She aimed for Sherlock's chair, deciding to settle herself in his lap to see if that didn't accomplish the two most important things she could accomplish right now: cheer Sherlock the hell up, and persuade Greg to leave the flat. But somehow her aim was off. She tried to walk towards Sherlock, but seemed to veer off to the side involuntarily. Molly stumbled into Greg; he whipped his arm up to catch her. Molly stretched her neck up languorously to look into his eyes. She seemed to be looking right through him, and Greg turned to hold her up with both arms. He felt his muscles contracting as she leaned more heavily against him, losing all the strength in her legs.
"Greg, I feel… strange," she told him, almost confidentially.
From his chair, Sherlock watched his girlfriend collapsing against his friend. Lightweight Molly was the canary in the coalmine, he realised. He and Lestrade were next.
"We're being gassed," Sherlock informed the Detective Inspector. He jumped haphazardly out of his chair and eased Molly out of Greg's arms, laying her out on the sofa. Greg immediately ran the few steps to the window and threw it open, taking deep gulps of fresh air.
"It's too late for that," Sherlock told him. "We'll be down in minutes." Sherlock had his phone in his hand, texting Mycroft and John: Baker Street, gas, they're here for Molly, going under.
Greg phoned Donovan and Anderson, he managed to get out his location and told them about the gas before he lost fine motor control and dropped the phone. "Shit," he swore. "Sherlock… we have to keep her safe. They're all too far away to get to us in time."
Sherlock began sinking onto the sofa, his eyes losing some focus and his legs unable to hold himself up. He had to stay with Molly, could not be separated from her. If he let her go, this would be the last time he saw her alive. He could see her on the slab at the morgue, the strange stars and initials carved into her precious body. He fought the panic. Think, solution, answers.
"Lestrade, handcuffs." Sherlock reached out a hand for Greg's jacket pocket and pulled out a pair of standard-issue cuffs. He turned back to Molly and snapped one shut over her left wrist, then clamped the other onto his right. Greg caught on quickly, fishing for the keys in his pocket. With the last of his focussed energy, he threw the keys as far as he could out the window.
"Hope they'll realise they don't have time to saw off my hand before Mycroft's people arrive," Sherlock mumbled to Greg. "Lestrade, remember everything, smells, sounds, anything you can see."
"I'm a fucking detective, Sherlock," Greg hissed, slurring. He was already slumped onto the floor by the sofa, his arm thrown uselessly over Molly's feet.
On the sofa, Sherlock canted over onto Molly, the fingers of his right hand threaded through her left. He snuggled his head onto her chest and felt his eyes closing against his will. He tried to listen out for sounds, clues, but found himself hypnotised by the slow beating of her heart. He started counting, calculating… still strong, but sluggish, 52bpm, he estimated. He barely registered the door splintering open under force, he was so intently focused on willing her heart to keep beating.
Lestrade, a few breaths of clear air behind Sherlock in the rush to unconsciousness, saw the intruders. He quickly created a room in his mind and filed the description away for when he awoke.
