A huge thank you, first off, to the reviewers since last update: hermione-amelia-rose1479, Pip-2250, Rocking the Redhead, AussieMaelstrom, Elliesmeow, ThefadingdaysofMay, broadwayb, hihiyas, katdemon1895, and a guest! Hearing your theories or your encouragement is really great, you don't even know :)
This chapter is very Molly heavy because of reasons. I'm also hoping that you take parts of it and, if you follow me on tumblr, put together something very key to the rest of the story. So yeah.
Enjoy!
Flip helped her make her coffee that morning, nearly knocking her cream over in the process of slinking along her countertop. Molly bent down to nuzzle his head and he butted against her cheek affectionately. She and Flip were more brother and sister than human and pet. Her father's last gift was one of enduring affection and love, a way of giving himself and Molly a few more years together than the cancer had allowed. Giving her cat one last overly affectionate hug, Molly hurried off to work for the day.
At the morgue she met a solemn faced Greg Lestrade who stood beside the body of a teenaged boy who'd died under suspicious circumstances. Molly put on her coat and new gloves to open up the bag so she could have a look. She let a sad smile tug on her lips, eyes flicking towards the few places which outwardly showed certain types of poisons. That was nearly always the first thing to explain a suspicious death—accidental or not. The faster samples went to toxicology, the quicker the results.
"Any drug use, that you know of?" that was the second usually. The detective inspector shook his head. Molly pressed her lips into a straight line, her eyes focusing on the boy in front of her.
"He would've grown up fairly tall, don't you think?" She knew whenever young people came by Greg, he couldn't help but see his own children's faces. Molly didn't answer his question though, just zipped the bag back up and wheeled the gurney towards the body lockers. Once the boy, Aaron Emerson, was fully put away she stripped her gloves and turned towards Greg again. She just barely caught the wistful look on his face before it cleared to focus on her.
"He would've grown up quite tall, I think. Would've played a good game of cricket at uni, even." She spoke with a soft smile on her face. Greg's eyebrows lifted briefly and then settled back into a determined line. She'd given him a life to fight for in the case. The man functioned best when he knew what he was fighting for. Now he was fighting for a boy who would never play cricket at uni with his mates.
"He's in line, but I should get to him in the next day or so. I'll call you to let you know."
With that Greg left after fully signing the body into the hospital morgue under Molly's care. Cases with kids always haunted him, worrying him that his own kids weren't as safe as he could make them. Man was a bulldog concerning their whereabouts; something which Molly thought was sweet.
The morgue was quiet save for the click of her tools and the squelch of guts as she worked. When her cell beeped a text—a cute little Paul McCartney jingle—she ignored it. It was Jim and they weren't due to see each other today. She'd told him yesterday that she was skipping lunch to work on several police inquiry bodies. He was texting her either something throw-away sweet or breaking up with her and so either way it didn't matter.
The smartphone pinged a few emails, her usual alert for her lunch break, and stayed silent the rest of the afternoon. The door swung open at around three and she looked up out of habit. Sherlock Holmes was making his way towards her intake files, flipping through the folders with a vague interest. He must have been quite bored at home, Molly decided. Since he didn't walk in demanding things from her, she continued on with what she'd been doing.
"Is that Stanley Crowell, the old janitor for the pediatrics floor?" he came up next to her, hands carefully tucked behind his back. He'd shrugged off his great coat and blazer, standing in a comfortably loose dress shirt. Not his usual, but Molly found him rather more attractive this way. She couldn't believe he could even move in his usual shirts.
"Yes—donated his body. Cancer, riddled straight through. Says—said—said he wanted to help some doctor somewhere save someone, and if this was the way to do it then this was the way it would be done."
"Such a talent at remembering the minutia," Sherlock complimented softly, taking a step away from her to stare at the organs she'd so far removed. Molly took a steadying breath, waiting for him to follow that up with something insensitive, and wasn't disappointed. Sherlock rarely failed to excel in things he was good at.
"Is it hard working on cancer-deaths? Your father died of cancer if I remember. Six years ago."
Molly froze. She'd never told Sherlock about her father's death, never. The day, the cause, the duration—not a word of it had ever escaped her lips. It must have been some unconscious thing she did that only Sherlock Holmes could see, and she'd forgotten how unsettling it could be when he found something so well hidden. Or thought to be hidden. Sherlock straightened up, staring at her silently over the organ dishes for a long moment until Molly met his eyes. He broke their gaze first, starting to speak rapidly.
"John is indisposed for the afternoon, and I find I need a medical eye more often than not—would you be willing to assist? You can leave a note that I upset you somehow, Mike will believe you. We'll have to leave soon to make sure we get there before dark."
"Where are we going that I'm forging a note for?" Molly went back to working as she spoke, being nearly done. Out of the corner of her eye she could tell that Sherlock was watching her hands, completely unruffled by the blood and mess. Her heart hurt—here was a man who wasn't bothered by the work she did, and she could never have him. That was, she decided, the main reason she'd gone out with Jim. Because Jim was boring and ordinary and didn't like to see the gory parts of life like Molly did. Best get used to boring and ordinary sooner than later.
"Never mind the note, I'll call him to come in and finish up for you. No doubt Mr. Crowell's head will need to be…examined…and I've no time for that. Are you coming or not?"
Molly raised her bloody gloves in surrender, rolling her eyes at him.
"Yes—yes, else there'll be no peace. I'll just keep working until Mike gets here though if you don't mind. I'll at least earn the skiving off, thank you." Sherlock's smile was feral—the feral smile he always had when he was on a case that was particularly exciting for him. Molly would ask later on where and what was so important that he needed an assistant but couldn't drag John from his obligations. Doctor Watson could be quite easy to persuade to skive off and go adventuring with Sherlock.
"Mike, hi—yes. Yes—right this instant would be preferable but I suppose a half hour is all we'll get—No." Sherlock hung up his phone and grabbed his blazer to put it on. Once it was buttoned and straightened to his satisfaction, he started moving around the room putting things away. It was as though he'd memorized a lab tech's cleaning regimen—he already knew how to work everything but Molly had never actually known him to know where it all went. Molly glanced at him occasionally as she tugged and snipped and weighed bits of Mr. Crowell. Much of the old janitor was going towards research of the formation of his cancer cells, particularly the metastasized tumors. He would have been happy, Molly decided with a small smile directed at his dead face, he would have been proud to help in such a way.
Sherlock, once the morgue was in pristine condition, moved on towards collecting her things—putting her mp3 player in her bag, winding up the headphones attached to it. Fishing for her lipstick in her desk drawer.
"Sherlock, I came as quickly as I could—are you quite sure that—"
"Yes. Come now, man, suit up—the janitor's head won't reveal his brain on its own. Molly…?"
"Oh—yes—um, well. Thank you Mike, um, I—"
"No need, Molly, no need. I completely understand how much you need—I mean in light of—"
"Molly." Sherlock had her bag and was standing impatiently by the door. Molly nodded and quickly stripped off her gloves and got ready for the outside world again and a few minutes later bid Mike a quiet goodbye. His face was sweet and pitying as he scrubbed up and said his own goodbye, and his wish that she would keep in touch. Molly said she would—after all she would have to make up for skiving off, and Mike would probably appreciate having an evening off to spend at home with his family in the near future. She'd make it up to him soon, she decided.
"So, where are we going?"
Sherlock's smile was brilliant outside on the sidewalk as he took her hand and wrapped it around his elbow.
"Dover—well, near Dover. Man contacted me about the idea that someone wants him to think his fishing boat is possessed, wants me down there to figure out why or at least how it is covered in dead fish every morning."
"Sherlock, I don't know anything about fish or fishing."
"Yes, well neither does John. I need more eyes, John isn't here, so," he patted her hand and gave her one of his rare genuine smiles, "here you are, and here we go." With that he produced two passes for the tube, and led them down the nearest entrance with sure steps.
Mycroft had done as his brother asked and planted the car. It was Sherlock's actual car, but he so rarely drove it that it mostly stayed in Mycroft's care. It was useful to occasionally have a car that didn't smell new and had obvious wear on the tires. Only fools used brand new cars in intelligence, and Mycroft was no fool. His brother was, but that couldn't be helped.
He'd gotten the call late last night—by the background noise, Sherlock had gone up to the roof of his flats to have a moment of privacy—and had of course stayed up the rest of the night to see his end of the bargain done. It was easy enough—bully some visas out of the French, politely request them from others along Sherlock's route. The plan was to lead the Irish Thanatos on a merry chase, all the while cementing a bond—a relationship—which the Irishman would be unable to break.
A single suitcase of the woman's clothing had been also requested, early this morning in a text message, but Mycroft had instructed that only a day-bag be packed. He wanted Sherlock to be well away from anywhere metropolitan or urban by the time the ruse was discovered, but he also wanted to arouse as little suspicion as possible in the woman. Molly Hooper—a lovely Persephone that Mycroft had given up on his brother ever noticing long ago. He understood that sometimes even those who were at risk to be fated for one another just…weren't. For most of Sherlock's acquaintance with the woman, Mycroft had been under the impression that she just wasn't Sherlock's type.
Perhaps she still wasn't, but Mycroft could understand empathy and loyalty, and therefore understood Sherlock's fanatic desire to save her from the Irish court. If he failed to bring his brother up to date on the current members of that court, it didn't worry Mycroft Holmes overly much. His brother was deeply melancholic, and this was a handy way of speeding things up. It was the best for everyone that Sherlock be allowed to think whatever he liked in this situation.
Mycroft hated to see his brother in any kind of pain or distress and unless this happened then he was bound to see more rather than less. Hopefully Molly Hooper would, in time, come to see this in a positive light—she was a Persephone seed, after all, and more likely than most to adapt to the situation. She was a good woman, and she might be what changed his younger brother into a good man. Whatever the outcome, the elder Holmes brother looked forward to it with reluctant eagerness.
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