Disclaimer: This fanfiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Not beta read, so all mistakes are mine. Thanks for their reviews go to keeptheotherone, Mione W.G., Paula Rushing and Aphraelsan.


CHAPTER EIGHT: THE MEDIUM IS THE MESSAGE


Sherlock doesn't notice her at first, though Mary does.

Considering the day she's had Molly's quite grateful for that.

The blond woman turns as soon as she enters, watching her close the space between she and the television with quiet steps. Moriarty's voice- grating, unwanted- is echoing through the room, asking once again whether the world at large missed him. (Molly's certain it didn't.) Asking Sherlock specifically whether he liked his little surprise. (She doubts he did- She certainly did not).

The two women's eyes meet and Mary gives Molly a small, tight smile of encouragement; Hooper nods back, understanding. When Sherlock sees her he flushes guiltily, moving until he's right in front of her, blocking her view of the tv screen. With gentle, uncertain hands he takes her by her arms, tries to lead her back to his bedroom- "You should get back to bed, Molly, you've no need to listen to-"

"I'm not made of glass, Sherlock," she says quietly and he flushes, clearly annoyed.

It feels oddly comforting, in a way his tenderness did not.

"I know you're not made of glass," he snaps, "but you don't need to give this bastard any more of your time-"

He gestures to the telly, where Moriarty is now singing a nursery rhyme. It's raining, it's pouring, Molly is falling...

For a moment her throat closes up, for a moment she's in that glass coffin again.

She forces her eyes shut, the memory of her ordeal intruding. "He's taken my time, Sherlock," she says. The words come out sounding curt. Stressed. "He's taken quite a bit more from me that can't be taken back-"

"He has taken nothing from you, Molly Hooper," he says firmly. "You are a glory quite beyond his grasp- Please don't believe anything else."

And his hand finds hers; He smooths soothing circles on her wrist with his thumb. When her eyes snap open she finds he's standing far closer than she thinks he ever has before. She frowns up at him, not sure what he's trying to tell her; He's biting his lip, his eyes on hers and it's almost…Almost…

"Oh, for heaven's sake!" Mycroft's voice intervenes, his tone causing them to move apart as if scalded.

It suddenly occurs to Molly that the Moriarty broadcast has cut out; Sherlock shoots his brother a filthy look but the elder Holmes is unimpressed.

"Are you going to pay any attention to your supposed nemesis, brother mine?" he snaps, "or should we leave you and your morgue mouse to get on with things?"

"Mikey!" Sherlock snaps. Molly flushes at the insinuation in Mycroft's tone and he steps between her and his brother; The look John and Mary exchange tells Molly she's not imagining the belligerence in him. John stands, moves towards his friend before seeming to think better of it.

Sherlock throws him a look, a small shake of his head, and the army doctor halts, just near enough to intervene if necessary.

"This isn't anything new," Sherlock tells Mycroft impatiently, gesturing to the screen. "He showed he can hack the BBC again, sang the nation a charming little ditty I happen to know he's fond of and then railed off some numbers." He snorts. "Hardly revelatory."

"How would you know, if you're making doe-eyes at your pathologist?" And Mycroft rocks back on his heels, looking smug.

Sherlock's smile turns sharp. Feral.

"Am I wrong in what I've said?" Mycroft's smile dims and Molly knows he's not. "Besides," Sherlock continues, "I've no need when Mary's been recording the transmission on her phone- Haven't you, Mary?"

And he shoots an insufferable smile at Mrs. Watson.

"Yep," she says, popping her Ps. Mycroft visibly shudders and her husband snorts in amusement. She gives the men in the room an almost sarcastically cheerful thumbs up, holding up the offending camera-phone. Sherlock takes it and sure enough, Molly can see a recording of Moriarty's last broadcast playing on the screen, taken from the tv.

"Pretty sure it's standard procedure for your little worker elves on the Farm to record anything Moriarty sends too," Mary's saying, "including any embedded material they can glean- Not easy when you don't have the original file but I'm sure there's something they get from it. It is, after all, what they do." She looks at Sherlock. "Satisfied?"

His smile is arch. "Never."

Again she snorts. "That's what I thought. But the numbers were-"

"AC873, OC 532 and UA 6864," he speaks over her. Gives Molly a tight smile which becomes steadily more obnoxious when he turns it on his brother. "As charming company as Doctor Hooper is," he points out, "I can listen to something and concentrate on her too. I'm gifted that way."

And he shoots Molly a wink, just like he used to do when he was into some mischief.

She knows it shouldn't but it makes her feel better.

"Oh, joy." Mycroft snorts, looks like he'd really like to swear but at the last moment his eyes flicker to the other occupants of the room, people Molly doesn't know. There's a dark-skinned little boy with startlingly light blue-green eyes, a purple-haired woman with a mass of tattoos and piercings and an older, white-haired woman, all of whom are looking at the elder Holmes brother with varying degrees of curiosity.

The white haired woman's eyes are narrowed, her head cocked to one side, and when Mycroft meets her gaze he looks away.

"Yes, well…" He clears his throat. Straightens his waistcoat. Suddenly he seems… diffident.

Molly wonders why.

"The numbers are clearly flight numbers," he announces stiffly. The white-haired woman's eyes narrow further, and to Molly's surprise she sees Mycroft… blush? "We can assume that Moriarty- or rather, whoever is impersonating him- wants us to look at these particular flights for a reason-"

"Obviously." Sherlock sounds bored and Mycroft's expression darkens worryingly: To Molly's surprise the white-haired woman leans over and whispers to the boy and, presumably, his mother, who stand and start searching for their coats.

"We'd better be going, Mikey," the woman says, pulling a long brown leather coat on. She winds a skull-covered scarf around her neck.. "Will can brief you on the case- I've put a copy of everything we've gotten electronically onto this."

And she hands Mycroft a battered USB drive; it's shaped like a TARDIS and for some unknown reason he smiles faintly at her, something she returns.

Sherlock rolls his eyes. Mycroft ignores him. Mary Watson looks at the woman with a new-found interest.

"You're sure it's you they're targeting, Pru?" Mycroft asks quietly and she nods.

"Micah made his youtube debut a few weeks ago and the clip's gone viral." She shoots the boy, who is now being buttoned into his coat by his mother, a worried look. "He wasn't supposed to end up online, not with, well, with who his grandfather is- But the threats didn't start until after the first Moriarty broadcast. I don't like the timing on that." She and the purple-haired woman share a look. "Neither does Lex."

"Quite." Mycroft looks like there's more he wants to say but before he can Pru calls to Sherlock, tells him to walk her and her family down to the street. By this time she and her party are bundled up in their coats and ready to go.

"But why?" Sherlock asks petulantly. "Outside is all… may be rain. And wind. And people. And there are stairs- Why would I want to walk down stairs if I didn't have to?"

Pru's tone is long-suffering. "Because I asked you to," she says simply. He rolls his eyes and a small smile softens her face. "Besides, how can I talk to you about your brother and-" her eyes flicker to Molly, then away- "other things while everyone's in the room?

Do try to be sensible, Will- Gossip requires privacy."

And she opens the door. Makes a shooing motion towards the landing. Sherlock must find her logic sound because he gives Molly's hand a final squeeze and then steps out of the flat, leading the small party down the stairs towards the front door. He and Pru speak quietly as they go, heads bent together.

Mycroft watches the party with an odd look on his face, one Molly can't quite characterise.

By this time he's buttoned himself into his coat, has picked up his trusty umbrella; It reminds Molly somewhat of a knight putting on his armour, though she's not sure why.

"I have things to do," he announces to the room at large, "and people to talk to." He throws a look at Molly, one which is distinctly unimpressed. "Try not to distract my brother to too lethal an extent while I'm gone, there's a good girl," he says and with that he sweeps out, leaving the Watsons and Molly alone in Baker Street, wondering what the Hell was going to happen next-

By the time Sherlock arrives back into the parlour, Mary has announced that she and John are heading out to get some take away and will be gone, "for yonks."

The look she shoots Molly leaves her in no doubt about the reasoning behind this decision but though she understands it, she finds she can't imagine what will happen once they're gone.