I apologize for the length between chapters, my darlings. This chapter was tough, for some reason. The words just floated in my head but would not meet the paper! Silly brain.
My intrepid reviewers - Rocking the Redhead, loveinfinity, hobbitsdoitbetter, sparkling unicorn, Eienvine, Khione'sKid306, johngirlwalton, RenaissanceBooklover108, ashlanielle, Angels-heart1, Bucky, legolover, DayDreamerFromAsgard, sherlolly-shipper221B and my guests - many thanks to you for taking time to sent me a quick note. It means the world. To those who are favoriting and following - thank you very much. I hope you continue to enjoy this story.
And a MAJOR thank you to hobbitsdoitbetter who is not only a spectacular writer (go, read her works now, you'll lament the fact that you hadn't read them earlier) but an amazing beta. You are the best, my lady.
Enjoy. :)
~oOo~
Molly woke abruptly to the sound of a loud crash. Her body was stiff and her heart raced, fear and tension coiling low in her stomach. Still half asleep she sat in silence, her breath held in anticipation, a silent plea repeating in her head- please no, please no- until she heard the familiar baritone resonate downstairs.
"Bloody hell. Look what you made me do!"
She let out a relieved sigh - Sherlock. And if, she were to hazard a guess, Toby. Her curious cat had evidently made his way to her host sometime in the middle of the night and now he was getting under the detective's feet. She rubbed the sleep from her eyes, turned on her side and attempted to calm herself. The sudden noise had roused her from another vague nightmare -she had been frightened, hunted. Trapped. She hadn't been certain what she was running from, only that it was bad. Even the knowledge of her settled and secure in Sherlock's flat couldn't dispel the spectre hovering over her - something wicked this way comes...
Molly shuddered. She knew all too well what could happen to her if this particular something wicked decided that pilfering unmentionables and items from her flat weren't enough. She'd been an unwitting pawn once before when the game hadn't revolved around her, and now that it did, she was going to make damn sure that she didn't lose.
She sat up in bed and reached for the phone on her bedside table - cursing under her breath as she saw the time. She'd forgotten to set her alarm and now she was an hour behind schedule - apparently psychopathic stalkers also screwed up your daily routine. Sending a hurried text to Mike Stamford, Molly threw on a jumper over her pajamas and made her way downstairs where she found Sherlock in the kitchen muttering about, 'that damnable cat'.
"Sorry Toby got in your way." She stood just inside the archway with her arms crossed over her chest - the patented Molly Hooper Nervous Posture.
Sherlock turned to her, the remains of the shattered porcelain bowl resting in his hands. He was dressed in slacks and a collared shirt (deep purple) and looking frustratingly gorgeous. She tucked a stray hair behind her ear, feeling (as she usually did in his presence) woefully inadequate.
He scowled and squinted his eyes in Toby's direction. "That cat of yours… annoying."
She rolled her eyes as he moved to throw the pieces into the bin. "He's a cat - they're supposed to be annoying." She shrugged, smiled slightly. "Besides, he likes you."
Sherlock stood up to his full height and stretched his back. Not unlike that aforementioned feline, Molly smiled to herself again. "Yes, well, you can let him know that I'm not seeking his friendship. If he gets under my feet again, he'll find himself on the wrong end of a dissection."
"Mister Holmes, if I find that you've submitted Toby to any experiments, broken dishware will be the least of your problems."
A ghost of a smile played on the corner of his mouth. "I see. So that's how it's going to be, is it? Me or the cat?"
"Well, Toby is a first rate bedwarmer, I don't know…" Molly stammered and looked down, the rest of the words - how good you are yet - dying on her lips. A flush crept up her neck and she knew her embarrassment was horribly evident. She shouldn't feel awkward - Sherlock was her...something. And that kind of banter should be alright between two people who were...well...who were somethings to each other.
Sherlock raised his eyebrow. Molly forced herself to look up at him, one eyebrow raised in response. Stalemate. He turned away and stepped toward the counter.
That was when she noticed why Sherlock was in the kitchen.
"You were...making breakfast." She said those simple words with such reverence and weight - as if Sherlock had just performed the most spectacular feat she'd ever seen. Which, quite truthfully, he had. Sherlock Holmes attempting to make anything for anyone was utterly and completely out of character. He expected others to bring things for him - not the other way around. She couldn't remember one time in the lab when he didn't hint, cajole or nag Molly about bringing him something to eat or drink.
It was Sherlock's turn to stammer. "Yes...well..I was hungry. I assumed you would be as well, so…" He regarded her surprised expression for a moment. "Don't look so shocked, Molly. I can fend for myself. I simply choose not to."
He stepped toward the counter and busied himself with putting some items on a plate - slightly burnt toast, runny eggs and four sausages. Molly took another glance around the kitchen and saw the pans piled in the sink - it looked as if Sherlock had attempted to make porridge as well only to burn the bottom of the tin (So that's the lingering smell, she thought).
"It's not...well, it's not much.".
She stepped forward and placed her hand on his arm, smiling gently. "It's perfect, really, Sherlock. Thank you."
He smiled back and pulled out a chair for her to sit and they began eating - an awkward silence descending over them for a few moments before Sherlock spoke.
"Did you...sleep well?"
He was trying. Awkward as it was for him to ask after someone's welfare - or anything else for that matter - he was trying to be the man he believed she wanted. It was these little moments that chipped away her instinct to keep him at arm's length. Sherlock was the most selfish, stubborn human on the planet - but for her, he was willing to step down from his lofty Perch of Superiority and attempt to do something selfless once and awhile. She couldn't pretend that wasn't attractive...or dangerous.
Molly nodded. "As well as could be expected, I suppose. Still don't fancy the idea that some bloke is running around out there with my knickers. Suppose I should be flattered though: I've got my own little fan club..." She chuckled mirthlessly.
She watched as Sherlock's jaw clench mid-bite as his countenance shifted instantly. "Don't do that."
"What?"
"Make light of it, Molly." His eyes darted to the side and Molly could see the anxiousness build rapidly - his shoulders squared and his fingers grew slightly taut around the fork in his hand.
Immediately she felt contrite. "Sorry," she said quietly. "Just don't quite know how to manage a stalker. This has always been your area of expertise..."
A slight pause and then, "Yes, well… " He was staring at his hands now. "It shouldn't have to be be yours, I am well aware of that."
She looked up from her plate to see him leaned back in his chair - his hands steepled familiarly under his chin. The tension - the distance - was back, the almost relaxed smile from just a few moments earlier replaced with pursed lips and a furrowed brow. He was delving back into his mind again - finding peace and structure inward. Shutting her out in his frustration.
"This isn't your fault, you know." She nearly whispered the words.
His eyes snapped to hers and he regarded her almost as if she'd accused him of being the stalker.
"Indirectly, yes, it is."
Molly began to speak but Sherlock went first. "By my association with you, the world knows who you are, Molly. They know you are important to me and they will both love you and hate you for it. If I'd never involved you in my life… You wouldn't be in this position."
She shook her head. "Maybe. But I won't let you use this as an excuse…" She didn't want to finish the sentence - putting her fear into words might give them reality and that was a spell she didn't want to cast. She reached her hand toward his instead - expecting him to flinch away from her touch - but he let her fingers settle over his although he made no move to grasp her hand in return. "You told me that everything would be alright. And it will. You'll find him."
She put every ounce of her own certainty into that statement.
Sherlock stared at her, at their hands and then back at her again, opening his mouth to answer-
"Sherlock! Sherlock!"
Mrs. Hudson's voice pierced the air. The woman fluttered into the room and halted in the doorway as she regarded Molly and Sherlock in their domestic scene. She quickly smiled and put her hand to her cheek (Did she sigh? Judging by Sherlock's derisive snort she must have) before her previous dismay descended again. She marched into the room and shoved a newspaper in Sherlock's hands.
Sherlock shifted and removed his hand from under Molly's. "You're upset about the paper? Really, Mrs. Hudson…" His voice dripped with irritation.
She tapped the picture on the front page pointedly and Molly watched as anger shrouded Sherlock's face.
"And look outside." Mrs. Hudson was in a full on dither now. Her hands winding together as she watched her tenant and pseudo son leap up from the chair and stalk his way over to the windows. Sherlock cursed ("Bollocks!") and turned away, running his hand through his hair as he stood stock still - once again delving into that place in his mind where all else around him ceased to exist.
Molly stood up, confused and worried. "What's happened?"
Mrs. Hudson looked her way. "Oh, dear. The paper… They've got a picture of you and Sherlock. And the press. Oh, they're all outside."
Molly picked up the newspaper from the table and gasped at the picture. It showed Sherlock and she standing outside the restaurant the previous day, in the moment where she was sure Sherlock was about to kiss her. The frame below held a smaller photo of him kissing her cheek. (Shagalot Holmes' In Secret Siren Scandal?) The sight of the photo - color but grainy and taken from far away - made her stomach roil. A beautiful memory now soiled by the knowledge that it had not been private. Something that should have been theirs alone was now being leered at and discussed by of thousands. She crumpled it in her hand and pushed past Mrs. Hudson only to be stopped by Sherlock before she could reach the windows. His hand grasped her bicep. "Don't."
"I'm already upset, Sherlock, seeing them isn't going to make it any worse."
He moved her in front of him, his hand still firmly in place - as if she would bolt the minute it was removed. "I'm not concerned with you seeing them, Molly. I'm concerned with them seeing you."
She relaxed into his firm grip, realizing that her curiosity and anger would only serve to complicate the already complicated situation. He was right, obviously. The parasites outside were just waiting for another tantalizing picture of the two of them and she was five steps away from handing them that photo on a silver platter.
She stared up at him - at Sherlock Holmes, Consulting Detective, not Sherlock Holmes, Boyfriend. His eyes were cold, his expression detached. He was much the same as he was the previous evening in her flat - analyzing, working through the options in his mind. There would be no consolation this morning - no whispered words of support or kisses on the cheek to let her know that he cared. Right now he was deducing, planning, strategizing and that left Molly to deal with her emotions on her own. This is the same Sherlock Holmes she'd known for years - his reaction shouldn't take her by surprise. Still, after all they'd been through in the last few days, she might hope for...more. Stiff upper lip, Hooper, she thought.
Molly stepped backward removing Sherlock's hand from her arm with her own. "I'm going to get ready for work. I assume you'll have a plan to spirit me away under the noses of the press by the time I'm done."
She turned and made her way down the hallway to the toilet where she closed the door gently behind her. This would be the way of things, she supposed. She hadn't truly expected him to shower her with affection simply because he'd stated his... attachment to her. So, to await anything more of him in a moment of stress would be unfair. After all, she was staying in his home. He could have had Mycroft put her into protective custody and boarded in some random high security hotel or flat somewhere in London. But he hadn't. He'd insisted Molly stay with him. And for Sherlock, she knew that was significant. That understanding took away some of the sting from his earlier words.
Keep Calm and Brush Your Teeth. She nodded to herself and began getting ready for whatever this day might hold.
But if one person asked whether Sherlock made her wear the deer-stalker in bed, they'd end up on her bloody table.
~oOo~
Sherlock watched as Molly disappeared behind the washroom door, the anxiousness winding through him. She'd look tired this morning. Tired and worn and, and… beautiful. (It was still such a new thought to permit himself, that she was as lovely as he'd always known she was). She was trying to put on a brave facade, but the lines of tension were more than evident in her face, as well as the bloodshot eyes and puffy skin that indicated earlier tears. He'd meant every word of what he'd said in the kitchen - Molly shouldn't have to endure the obsession of a deranged fan simply because of her association with him.
And yet, that was precisely what was happening.
He'd been awake most of the night, plagued by those questions to which he had no answers. And in the dark, the 'what ifs' and 'possiblies' taunted him more cruelly than Moriarty had done when they'd stood face to face on the hospital roof. What if I can't protect her? What if this stalker gets his hands on Molly? What if...what if...what if... The uncertainty haunted Sherlock: Maybe the idea (Delusion? Fantasy?) that he might be able to entertain a relationship with Molly was a mistake. She would be a target because of him. She had been a target because of him. Even when he wasn't the focus, his notoriety tainted her.
And in the dark of the night, the idea of Molly Hooper in jeopardy simply because she was with him had felt like a lead weight on his chest.
He'd paced - stormed, really - through the flat - Molly's annoyingly persistent cat trailing him as he went. The moment he'd made up his mind that it was in Molly's best interest to break off this, this thing between them, Sherlock had found himself standing in the open doorway of her room. The hallway light had spilled into that small space and illuminated her sleeping form. His heart had skipped a beat as he watched her slow, steady breathing in the dim light. He'd been unsettled. Distracted. Anxious about the fact that, once again, his control seemed to slip whenever he was around Molly. The pride in his ability to detach from distractions like sentiment and conscience evaporated with her. He had hung his head then, knowing that he was bound to stomp on her feelings, make her cry and be a generally horrible partner - boyfriend? - but that he would not abandon her… He could not ever abandon her, not his Molly.
The thought was both terrifying and oddly calming.
And now Sherlock stood in the middle of his flat, trying to refocus himself back to the task at hand rather than on the nebulous what ifs and negative scenarios that revolved around his Molly being mercilessly tortured at the hands of a faceless stranger. He needed a solid plan. A plan to bring the bastard out into the open. Something would have to be done to gain the upper hand and flush the rat out of his nest.
The pack of wolves sniffing around outside might do very well toward that end.
Good, he thought darkly. It was about time the press proved they had a use besides getting in his way.
"Sherlock…"
Mrs. Hudson stood to his side, looking at him with those helpless, worried eyes. "She's scared."
"Well, that's bloody obvious." He turned away from the woman, not wanting to be distracted by her desire for attention just now.
"So are you, my boy."
He crossed his arms behind his back and breathed deeply. Annoying. He didn't have time for her buzzing in his ear. "I don't have time for your ramblings just now. I am a bit preoccupied," he sarcastically ground out through clenched teeth.
"Stop it, Sherlock. You just stop it." The firmness of her voice - the authority it held - surprised him and Sherlock cocked his head toward her. It wasn't often that the older woman spoke to him as anything other than his landlady or his housekeeper these days. "John told me about that girl," Mrs. Hudson was saying. "I know she's important to you: I suppose, since the first time I saw you apologize to her for being a berk, that I've known she's important to you. So you need to take care of her… Not just protect her, but take care of her."
Sherlock opened his mouth to point out that that's why he was doing, damn it, but Mrs. Hudson spoke over him with nary a pause. "I understand that's difficult for you but try, Sherlock. For her sake, just try. It's not enough to keep her in one piece, not when you're a couple. You have to take care of each other's heart too. You take care of hers and she takes care of yours, that's the way it works for us normal ones." And she smiled sweetly; Before he could object to being called normal she stepped forward and patted his arm. "So you let me know what I can do to help. I have every faith in you my boy." Her grin widened. "Besides, I'm overdue for another adventure."
And with a wink, Martha Hudson slipped back downstairs and left her tenant in a state of mild shock. Molly was apparently now under her guardianship. And his. His. He was responsible for a person other than himself, which could bode no well. Quite a little pack Molly had inadvertently created for herself.
And best to tread lightly around its mother lion, he mused.
Sherlock turned back toward the window at the thought, and as he did his phone rang. He stepped to the desk, picked it up and saw 'Lestrade' on the display. Annoying. He rolled his eyes, wondering what case DI Lestrade might have found to waste Sherlock's time today. Sherlock swiped the phone.
"I don't have time today, Detective Inspector."
"Sherlock, get to the address I'm texting you. Immediately."
"I said..." Sherlock huffed.
"Kitty Riley's been attacked."
Sherlock's head snapped up. "Go on."
"The poor woman was worked over. There was a note…" Sherlock heard the man's slow intake of breath - steadying himself. "...stapled to her chest. Into the skin." Greg paused and Sherlock felt the blood rushing through his ears with anticipation. He closed his eyes, knowing the note was from him. Knowing this was one more step towards Molly.
"Say it, Lestrade." The word was clipped. Sharp.
"The note said, 'Leave my Molly alone,'" Lestrade muttered.
A beat.
"Donovan says feel free to start swearing now."
~oOo~
Aw, look...that box would love to have something written in there...
