Whoop whoop! Better late than never... Right? (Honest, this is the second to last 'dark' chapter, before we go back to rainbows as happiness and maybe even some parent-Lolly!)
But on a serious note, the past 8 months have been hell and thus this has been incredibly slow coming. To anyone still waiting for this chapter, thank you for your patience. ILY.
"I swear, that's all I saw. Muscular, hairless, pale. Ring indentation, in addition to a paler stripe where ring had been. Tattoo under sleeve, tail end was sticking out from the end of his t-shirt. Looked like a dragon or a Chinese tiger."
Sherlock was just sat, there, staring at her as she reamed off a litany of facts that had been instantly remembered subconsciously, hating, reviling, detesting the bland mask his features had become: she wondered if this was how his (recently gained) clients felt. Belittled. Asinine... Stupid.
"Anything else, Molly?"
"Grey t-shirt, bald head but could be easily covered with a hat or a wig to blend in. Had a black rucksack and was wearing... Latex gloves, I think. Skin tight. Possibly airbrushed on, to ensure no finger prints had they been caught. Or bleeding should I-she- have fought or bitten."
Finally, a small smile formed at the corners of his lips. The knot of tension and the breath she hadn't known she was holding suddenly loosed themselves, leaving her almost giddy. (But only almost.)
"There was definitely more than one, though. Whilst he didn't look around at all, he had an air of... I don't know, subjugation? Like he didn't really want to be doing it, or like he was being forced- not against his will, per se. More like he wanted to do a different job and got saddled with the kidnapping. That... That does make sense, doesn't it?" She worried her lip, catching it between her teeth as she thought. She hadn't consciously recognised the signs of slight weariness at the time (too caught up in the fear and adrenaline that had been coursing through her veins like a heady cocktail of drugs) but upon reflection, the signs were obvious.
"What, exactly, gave you this inkling?"
She swallowed nervously as she studied his face for any clue as to his own thought processes. She reasoned that he was merely testing her own hypotheses and deductive reasoning against his own.
"He looked... Irritated, I think. He was rougher with her than would have been necessary for a simple grab, but not so rough that it was malicious or in anger. At least not at her. She merely substituted the person he wanted to hurt. He was also unarme-"
"How did you know he was irritated?"
She frowned a little, trying to place it.
"The set of his shoulders, I think. Hunched up, slightly, but still aggressive. Held himself almost brittlely-no, tense, he was just very, very tense. But not wary. Just tense...and unarmed."
She trailed off as Sherlock seemed to delve into his own mind, becoming utterly still and (though she'd never tell him) statuesque.
She'd never fully witnessed this, his withdrawal into to catacombs of his mind, leaving the physical world for one entirely of his own creation and tailored explicitly to his needs. He reminded her of a comatose patient her nan had shared a room with when having her hip replaced (there had been no other beds and the patient had no family to argue with the doctors on his behalf). Bodily functions carried on, but he was blind to the world, unseeing of its sham and drudgeries for a few-many- misplaced moments. Frankly, it unnerved her.
She sat for a few moments, attempting to decipher any other vital (but tiny, so small the ordinary mind would consider inconsequential) clue or giveaway she may have missed, almost screaming when Sherlock suddenly launched himself at her, pinning her arms to her sides and all but straddling her waist.
"Something about you, Molly Hooper, is causing someone very bad to do some very desperate things," he hissed, tiny flecks of spit landing on the tip of her nose as she stared dumbfounded into his intense blue eyes; lit with fire and passion, not flat and cold, or sparkling with mirth as she was accustomed to. (She decided she liked that fire, even through her alarm.) "We have been looking at this from entirely the wrong angle! Focussing on your mother, the kidnapping, every little detail except the glaringly obvious. Often, it is the most simple solution that is the correct one."
She swallowed nervously as his face loomed even closer, a detached, clinical look sliding over the fire in his eyes as he raked his gaze across every millimetre of skin exposed to his view ( as if the secrets to the world, the tragic events that had so recently unfolded and had wreaked such havoc upon their lives were written in code within the constellations of freckles and pores across her face).
(She scolded herself for using such flowery language even within the safe confines of her own head.)
"The only thing you have ever done of note is befriend me." Her heart fell slightly at his unthinking words; she knew he didn't mean them unkindly, "Perhaps someone wants me alone? Friendless? But they would target John also. Then perhaps they wish for you to be separated from your friends, become withdrawn and isolated? But for what reason? Other than kidnapping, but what would anyone stand to gain?- no offence, Molly,- your father is poor, cares for nothing and would sadly be unlikely to pay a ransom, nor does he have the means to gain enough cash to satisfy a kidnapper's demands were he so inclined to save you, which again suggests they want..to kill... You." His razor sharp gaze, which had been flashing back and forth around the room zeroed back on her with all the impact of an atomic bomb, focused solely on her wide eyed stare.
And yet she felt no twinge of fear at the certainty of her imminent doom (again, she berated herself for choice of language- Sherlock's flair for the dramatics seemed to be having more of an effect on her than she had realised). It seemed that the infallible certainty that all of youthdom inherently possessed, namely that of their own immortality, was as present in her as in any other idiot of her age- Sherlock included. She was filled with the determination of ages that she would succeed in this quest and would have nary a scratch upon her, thanks to the training and presumably sheer dumb luck.
In short?
She felt alive.
"Well, then, Mr William Sherlock Scott Holmes, I am depending on you to help me find a way out of this."
Her open brown eyes gazed innocently at him, taking in his vaguely dumbstruck expression ( he hadn't realised she knew his full name-she overheard Mycroft ribbing him about it several months back- he had responded by calling him Mikey, much to his brother's irritation) and attempting to convey her trust in him. They'd work this out!
Molly Elizabeth Hooper and Sherlock Holmes were more than capable of taking down a criminal network hell-bent on murdering her, she was sure.
"We still don't know why they want to kill you."
"Until we find them, let them catch me and interrogate them that way, we won't know, will we? I'd say that I'm about as ready as I will ever be, once we come up with plans for escape, so why are we wasting time? We need to plan!"
She grabbed hold of his hand and pulled the tall boy to his feet, whilst selecting a playlist on her MP3 player to play in the background. She all but dragged him to the desk, carefully but firmly sweeping a pile of papers to one side and smirking at the aghast expression on his face.
Their hushed murmurings and the sound of pens scratching against paper filled the flat with a soft, warm atmosphere that seemed to lull them into a sense of security, making time stand still even as the songs changed and the lights outside flickered slowly to life, bathing them in the gentle, artificial orange glow that epitomised London beauty.
Neither noticed the sun setting, only blinking in surprise when Molly's phone rang for the fourth time, insistently, her Pa's face lighting up the home screen and his worried voice cutting harshly across the gentle music as she answered it.
"Molly? Where are you, love? Please, I need you to come home. I can't be alone any more, I can't keep pushing you away like this, it's killing us just as surely as they killed your Ma. Just come home as soon as you can, plea-"
A muffled thump and the line went dead; Molly's horrified face seemed burned into Sherlock's retinas for eternity as she crumpled in his arms, phone falling from her limp fingers.
"They've got him. Not only have they tried to take me, they're going after him now too? Haven't they taken enough from me?" Her voice had risen until she was screaming, her eyes red but dry, throat hoarse but shrill, her heart bleeding but somehow still (impossibly) whole.
She turned her burning eyes up to him, compelling him to do something. Softly, Sarah Mcloughlan's In the Arms Of An Angel swept over the pair as he urgently called his mother, murmuring in low tones the details of what they had heard and what needed doing, as she curled on the floor against his knees, blind to the world.
Three days, twenty hours and fifty four minutes after that phone call, Molly managed to rouse herself from her stupor to find the flat in extreme disarray and every available surface (be it wall, table or ceiling) covered in sheet after sheet of paper. Maps, diagrams and hastily written post-it-notes, seemingly disconnected were linked by one defining factor: Sherlock's cramped, meticulous writing filled every available millimetre, whilst the man (for he was a man, now, she realised,) himself paced relentlessly in front of the far wall.
Maps, what seemed to her hundreds of maps, were blu-tacked haphazardly onto the fading black and pale gold wallpaper, thin criss-crossing string lines in various colours interrupting the already overstimulating mess of paper; however, every ten steps or so he would pause, mutter a "no" or a "of course", move or add a string and resume his pacing.
She took a moment to appreciate the fact that he had taken the time to move her onto some cushions on the floor, wrapping her up snugly in their shared throw blanket (which she somewhat suspected was so that she would feel enveloped in her catatonic slumber).
"Hey."
He was at her side in a swirl of blue dressing gown, his long hands caressing her face gently, searching her face for signs of psychological trauma, she assumed.
"Oh good, you're awake. I need to run our new plan by you before allowing Mummy to talk Daddy into supplying the resources for it to go ahead. Of course, it could be managed without his considerable help but it..."
His voice lowered became impossibly fast as he strode back over to the fall opposite her, moving two yellow strings and adding three purple from the opposite direction, leading to the same central spot approximately half a mile from the Old Bailey.
"Of course. They're leading us somewhere secluded but prominent enough to cause a stir when our bodies are found. If we add...And change the angle of ... and take you out of the picture entirely... Perfect."
He whirled back to face her, reaching for her face and planting an unpractised kiss squarely upon her bewildered lips.
"Molly, thank you. You're a genius and I don't tell you that enough."
"What? All I did was wake up!"
His lips quirked in a half smile, unleashing those pesky butterflies once again.
She really needed to focus on keeping her cool around him better.
"No, Molly. You provided something for me to focus on again, inside this case. You know it is, there is no sense in pretending otherwise. By being so fully wrapped up in the intricacies - or lack thereof as it appears to be- of this messy case, I forgot to look towards outside influences. Such as the homeless, those deemed by society" (Here he spat the word, as though it left a foul taste in his mouth) "as sub-human, or unfit for simple human courtesy. Factoring in the homeless, we have at least nine different possible approaches that have a greater than 74% success probability, of which four are 96% likely to be almost infallible. All four require you to act, Molly. But not in front of them."
Her heart, already racing from his near proximity, began frantically labouring under the sudden influx of adrenaline his words had inspired.
They had a plan.
They had a plan!
She jumped up and hauled him to her, pressing frantic kisses along his jawline whilst desperately thanking him.
"Please, Molly, you haven't heard the plan yet-"
"No, but I know it will be fantastic. I know you, Sherlock! And I know you will get us through this. You and I will survive this."
A brief shadow glanced across his features, so quickly she thought she may have imagined it.
"And your father? I must tell you, there is a significant risk with all of these approaches, no less than 68.5% chance on the best plan, that your father will not survive. Will you be able to handle that?"
She had expected some kind of crux, some glitch that would pull her up. She had even anticipated this exact scenario, him telling her in no uncertain terms that someone close to her would perish before her Ma's killers were caught. She had also expected the pain, the blinding, nauseating pain that speared through her. But this time, she was braced for it, safe in the knowledge that Sherlock, her Sherlock, would be her rock just as she was his.
"There... is one other thing."
There was something lurking in his eyes, some remnants from the dark time between seeing each other that neither of them talked about, when drugs and death had been an all too prominent feature in Sherlock's life, that warned her of the implications of this "other".
"How many of your plans with the greater than 74 percent chance of succeeding require this? All? One? I don't want you in danger too."
And she knew he would be, if he did this. He craved the rush of adrenaline that accompanied danger and quieted his mind enough to appreciate being alive, that being in so much immediate danger always brought. (She stubbornly refused to accept that he might have other, darker needs than adrenaline he sought to satiate.)
That didn't mean she'd stand for it.
"I...Uh...Two. Two of my plans would most likely would be highly effective if I were to appear distracted by another, grander case. This would also support the view I have been perpetuating that I am a heartless, unfeeling, detached person, only using you for experiments. You, of course, would be seen going frantic trying to find him whilst we work behind the scenes to put our plan in motion."
"You're gonna hide me away. Whilst you're out getting yourself and my Pa killed, as well as your parents implicated in this hideousness, you're gonna hide me away and keep me safe, worrying myself sick that you're not going to return to me."
"Yes."
"And what if you don't come back?" (She applauded herself internally for not choking on the last word, despite every syllable dragged from her throat feeling like superglued sandpaper tearing her insides apart on their way from her heart.)
"Mycroft will know where you are. He'll look after you, make sure you're well-"
"I DON'T WANT MYCROFT, SHERLOCK! I WANT YOU! ALL I HAVE EVER WANTED IS YOU! AND YOUR STUPID, NOBLE NOTION IS GOING TO TAKE THAT AWAY FROM ME AND I DON'T EVEN HAVE A SAY IN IT, DO I?"
The shock ripping across his face made her sudden anger dissipate almost as quickly as it had appeared.
"Do I?"
"No. I'm sorry, Molly, but to have you on the scene would only put you, and everyone else in danger. You'd be a distraction, one I couldn't risk being around. This is really to protect me, as much as you." The smirk tilting up one corner of his mouth made her smile grudgingly, allowing him his confession of self-servicing.
"The plan is currently in motion anyway," he said, as she thought distractedly that she hadn't even noticed his fingers flying across the keys of his phone. "Mummy has wheedled Daddy into getting the relevant forces involved, Mycroft has gotten in touch with his old school contacts and the homeless network are waiting on my signal to either prepare clothing for me or to get into position surrounding the site. I will give the signal, bring you to the safe location, alert New Scotland Yard about the crime about to be committed in the Bank of England - no, Molly, different crime - and get into position in front of the Bank. Meanwhile, you will be safe, reading one of the numerous pathology journals I have provided for you, no doubt worrying your lip in that awfully distracting way you have - please, I have to focus, Molly - whilst Mycroft keeps me up to date on both your well-being and well-being of the homeless network involved in saving your father. I promise you that I will do everything in my power to ensure your father's and my own survival, so please, stop crying?"
His hands flapped awkwardly by his sides until he decided the best action was to smooth away her tears.
"Molly, I don't understand? I'm trying to make you happier, why are you crying? I promise you, I won't put myself in any danger knowingly."
She coughed a smile through the tears, hating that she seemed so weak when usually she was so strong, and hugged him.
"I know, you silly lout, that's why I'm crying... You've thought of everything!"
With her head resting above his heart, she could feel the way his chest puffed out in pride at her words and smiled just a tiny bit wider.
