Chapter 9 - I Need An Assistant

15th July 1867 - Holmes Manor

Molly was downstairs, having lunch with Mrs Hudson, when there was a loud indistinct shout above them, followed by crashes and frantic footsteps. The two women looked at each other in alarm, for while a few bangs and crashes from upstairs was fairly normal, this sounded like something more.

"Oh, I hope he hasn't hurt himself." Mrs Hudson worried.

"Should we... go check?" Molly asked, looking up at the ceiling as if she could see though it.

"I don't know... He hasn't rung the bell." Mrs Hudson said, though she kept glancing up also, motherly concern all over her face.

"I'll go." Molly decided, getting up and heading upstairs. She knocked gently on the lab door when she got there. "Sherlock? Is everything okay in there? We heard you shouting."

"Then you know it isn't!" He snapped back through the door, "So stop asking pointless stupid questions and go grab some rags to clean this up."

"Right." Molly said for his benefit, as she hadn't yet opened the door, and ran off to get some cleaning rags from the cupboard under the stairs. When she got back up she forwent knocking and let herself straight in, letting out a gasp at the sight of the spray of blood across his table. After working in the mortuary she was fairly used to the sight of blood, but it was the how it got there that worried her. She spotted Sherlock over by the water basin, the water stained red as he bathed the wound while keeping tight pressure on it.

"Are-" she caught herself before asking if he was alright again and asked instead, "how did this happen?"

"The needle," he nodded to it at the same moment she saw it on the desk as she moved things away to clean, "I couldn't get a good grip and my hand slipped, and tore a vein."

"More likely an artery by the amount of blood." She observed, wiping the table down before it could dry on. Sherlock's lack of a response surprised her, and she looked back up to see him staring at her curiously. "I do know the difference." She qualified quietly, averting her eyes again as she continued to clean.

"Clearly." He responded, though the bite was gone from his voice, leaving a grudging respect. She watched him out of the corner of her eye as he came closer, temporarily letting go of the wound to pick up one of the rags she brought and press it to it instead.

"That looks like it'll need a couple of stitches, to be safe." Molly advised. She eyed the tourniquet that was on his arm again, probably applied after she decided, and felt sure he'd have the necessary equipment.

"Yes." He replied, confining both her spoken words and thoughts, as he lowered himself back into his seat beside her, leaning his head back and closing his eyes.

"You're not feeling dizzy, are you? Or faint?" Molly asked in alarm.

"Just waiting for the bleeding to stop." He waved her away with the one hand while his eyes were still shut.

"Okay."

Molly finished cleaning the desk and put it back roughly how it was, before taking the rags and bloodstained basin away to be disposed of. She brought the basin back with fresh hot water she had got from Mrs Hudson, giving the older woman an update on the situation while she was down there. She was shocked on her return to see Sherlock with the needle and thread already in hand, attempting to stitch it himself, though he hadn't got a single stitch in yet, his hands too unsteady.

"Let me." She offered, putting the basin down on the desk before him and holding out a hand expectantly, which he ignored.

"I can do it."

"Sherlock." She said sternly, waiting until he looked up at her before insistently holding her hand out further. "You're going to do more damage to yourself. Let me."

"And allow you to do more damage to yourself?" At her confused look he clarified, "You haven't developed any symptoms yet, it is still possible you are in the clear, and taking further risks would be inadvisable."

"I'll barely have to touch you, and I'll wash my hands thoroughly after." She said in a tone that suggested strongly that it was as far as she was willing to compromise on the subject. Sherlock must have got the message as he sighed and handed the implements over. "You have sterilised these, haven't you?" Molly checked.

"In fire." Sherlock answered, nodding to the Bunsen burner on the desk.

Satisfied, Molly got to work, trying to ignore the way Sherlock was watching her every move.

"You have very steady hands." He commented, not even wincing slightly as the thread dragged through his flesh. He probably couldn't feel it, Molly reminded herself.

"Thank you. I used to sew the bodies back up after Mi- Dr Stamford was finished with them." She explained as she worked "In fact I think I'm more practised at sewing flesh than I am sewing clothes, Mum didn't have much of a chance to teach me before she died. That's weird, isn't it?"

"I've never sewn cloth." Sherlock returned, smirking, "What a pair we make."

Molly's eyes shot up to Sherlock's, wondering if he had meant that the way it sounded, but he seemed to think nothing of the offhand comment, so she continued her work, albeit blushing as she did so.

"Okay, that's it." She snipped the remaining thread with a small pair of scissors that had appeared with the needle and thread. "Where do these go?"

"Uh, top drawer on the right." He waved vaguely in the direction of the correct cabinet, with his uninjured arm as he examined the stitches closer. "You know, I could use a pair of steady hands like yours in the lab more often. Mine can't always keep up with my brain nowadays, and you seem to be comfortable and familiar around the equipment."

Molly smiled and blushed more at the compliment, no matter how small. "Yes, of course I'll help. Though I'm not entirely sure what it is you do up here all day." She pulled open the drawer, finding a little bag inside that seemed to be a small first aid kit, stocking more thread, bandages, small bottles of what must be rubbing alcohol, and several syringe needles. She packed the needle, thread and scissors neatly inside.

"Trying to find a cure, of course." He said simply, causing her to look up sharply in amazement, "Who better to research it? I certainly have the time and the motivation."

"Well yes, that's true. Then I'd be honoured to assist you." Molly said decisively, putting the medical kit back into its drawer. As she did though, a piece of paper at the bottom of the drawer caught her eye.

She picked up the clipping from London's Strand magazine, staring at the picture of a clearly healthy Sherlock, his face clean shaven and his hair a little shorter, though equally curly. As good looking as he was though, it was actually his companion who had caught her eye.

"Doctor Watson?"

Sherlock's head whipped round like a dog scenting a rabbit, his eyes narrowing on the piece of paper in her hand and then her.

"You know John?" He asked, but continued before she could answer, "Of course, the doctors surgery above the morgue, it's his, isn't it? The letter you carried was for Michael Stamford, I thought I recognised the name, he and John trained together, it makes sense now."

"That's right. So... You know him too, I mean, you look like you were close?" Molly asked, starting to wonder how many of her acquaintances it would turn out knew Sherlock, and why she'd never heard of him all this time.

"Oh almost inseparable. We shared a flat, he assisted me on my cases... His medical knowledge and army training were most valuable to me. It was the two of us against the rest of the world, Sherlock Holmes and Dr John Watson. Those were the days." He muttered sadly, staring wistfully at the picture in Molly's hand.

"So what happened? I mean, I know..." She gestured to him, indicating his condition, "But it sounds like you don't see him anymore, why doesn't he visit if you were that close? And I never heard him mention you... Sorry." She hastily added, seeing a brief flicker of hurt cross his face.

"No it's... It's quite alright." He reassured her, visibly pulling himself together. "It's my own fault, I suppose. He doesn't visit because he doesn't know I'm here. He thinks I'm dead."

Molly's brow creased in confusion. "What, because of the leprosy? But he's a doctor, surely he would realise it couldn't -"

A bitter huff of laughter from Sherlock cut her off. "Not the leprosy." He replied "He doesn't even know about that. No, He think's I'm dead because he saw me throw myself off of a building."

"What?" Molly picked up her jaw to say in a hushed shocked tone.

"I faked my death, almost as soon as I knew what was to become of me. It was the only way to get John to leave me alone, to prevent him getting himself infected also trying to doctor me." Sherlock explained, "He had only been married a matter of months, to an outstanding woman who probably would have let him, but she was pregnant, and I couldn't... I wouldn't let him throw that away, put them all in danger, so I... I removed that risk from his life."

Molly absorbed that for a few seconds, her eyes tearing up slightly in sympathy, as her view of the man shifted dramatically again to encompass his self-sacrificing loyalty. Suddenly his harsh behaviour not allowing her contact with her friends made a lot more sense.

"Greg-Lestrade" she corrected herself remembering that was how Sherlock knew him, "he believes it too, doesn't he? That you're dead."

"Yes. He probably would have been more sensible about keeping his distance, but they used to go out drinking together after cases sometimes, he and John, and so I couldn't trust that he would be able keep the truth from him. It was just easier to let them both believe it. Mrs Hudson was supposed to believe it too, but she caught me breaking back into the flat that night to gather some last things for my exile, and wouldn't hear of me being all alone. I'd have had to have her locked up to prevent her following me, but at least she managed to keep it from John, told him she was going to live with her sister in Scotland, I think."

Molly nodded, feeling an extra surge of affection for Mrs Hudson, for her loyalty. It was such a shame that two people who care so much for the people in their lives should have to cut themselves off from those very people. She glanced up through tear-damp eyelashes at Sherlock's face, seeing a glimpse of the sadness and loneliness he usually hid so well, written across his features as he stared at the picture in her hand. Without a second thought, she put her arms around him, giving him a comforting squeeze and aiming a kiss for his cheek.

Her kiss didn't land though, as Sherlock ripped himself from her arms so forcefully he nearly crashed into the table behind him, which he quickly hobbled around.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?!" He shouted at her as he did, "Are you determined to share in my affliction?"

Molly felt the sting of rejection in his actions, but didn't back down and cower at his raging, seeing it now for what it was; the shield of a man who cared too much and didn't want to be hurt any more. She held up her hands placatingly, taking a small step towards him, but no further.

"Your affliction isn't the disease, it's the loneliness that comes with it." She said softly, the same voice she used to use on her horse when he was spooked, "And I don't want that. It's probably already too late for me with the leprosy, we both know it, so stop making excuses and denying me the only human contact I could have. Please."

Sherlock had stopped retreating, staring at her in pained confusion. She reached out again, running a hand gently down his arm and linking hands with his. He stared down at it for a second, then looked back at her and for a second she could see a whole world of emotion through his eyes, before he shut it down, putting back on a collected and controlled mask. He didn't let go of her hand though, in fact she felt him adjust for a better grip, and she was sure she could feel his fingers on her pulse point, reading her.

"Come with me." He said suddenly, leading her by the hand out of the room. She didn't question him, just followed as he led her up through the house, right the way to the attic. Here he let go off her hand to pull the dust sheet off of an object that sat in front of the large circular window at the front of the room, looking out across the landscape. Once it was revealed, the sunlight streaming through the window glinted off a delicately engraved golden telescope, mounted on a dark oak tripod, all set for viewing through.

Sherlock circled, watching her as she examined it, until she met his eye and he nodded to the viewfinder. "Go ahead, look through."

Molly tentatively stepped up to it, having to tiptoe to bring her eye level to it, but not wanting to disturb it's trajectory from what Sherlock wanted her to see. She gasped when she realised what it was she was looking at; the front of the doctors clinic back in Finchley. Even as she watched, Doctor Watson appeared, escorting elderly Mrs Turner out and waving her off, before turning and going back inside. Watching the simple action made Molly's throat ache with longing, missing her life and her friends back home. She pulled back from the scope, trying to blink away the moisture building in her eyes as she looked to Sherlock for an explanation.

"I don't understand... You said you hadn't watched me... Before." She croaked, thinking that if he had been watching the clinic he would have seen her in plenty of occasions.

"Did I?" He asked, causing her to think back and realise he'd never actually said the words, "But no, nice try, but your deduction is lacking some vital information. Look around you."

Molly did as he said, looking around the room. There wasn't really much to see, only a few other mystery items concealed by sheets, and an awful lot of dust. It seemed to be everywhere, on the telescope despite the cover, drifting through the air, visible in the stream of light coming from the window, making the beam seem almost solid. And last but not least, the floor, which was caked to almost an inch deep, except from two very distinct sets of footprints where they'd come up.

"The footprints, in the dust." She spoke her thoughts aloud, and then it clicked, and she looked back at Sherlock. "You haven't been up here in a long time."

Sherlock nodded, laying a hand on the scope, but not putting an eye to it.

"I thought it was a good idea at first; keep my deductive skills sharp, practising on passersby, keep an eye on John to see how he was coping. But instead it made me... Emotional." He spat bitterly, one hand on his chest like he was remembering an ache deep inside. His speech sped up into a rat as his feelings got the better of him "It distracted me and brought me nothing but misery. A useless pastime, that achieved nothing, when I would have been better served staying in my lab and working on a cure, rather than pining away up here like some wretched creature and then going down only to-" he stopped sharply, as if realising how he sounded, and took a deep breath before continuing again, "As I said, it was no good to me, but if it would ease your loneliness to see your friends again, by all means..." He waved to it as he turned away, making a rapid retreat to the stairs.

Molly wanted to call after him, to offer him some sort of comfort, but knew he would hardly appreciate it, alarmed as he was by emotion. Instead, a question burst forth from her before she could stop it, one that had been in the back of her mind for a while, but seemed fitting after all he had told her today.

"How long, Sherlock?" Her voice made him pause, turning to look at her over his shoulder, "How long have you been here?"

"I'm not certain." He confessed, though his voice was devoid of emotion, "How old is John's firstborn?"

Molly's eyes widened as she realised. She should have worked it out herself, but now it was too late, and she'd have to tell him the terrible truth she'd just realised.

"T...Ten. Charlotte is ten." Ten years, he and Mrs Hudson had been alone here.

Sherlock didn't react to the news at all, his face completely blank, no witty comeback on his lips. He blinked a couple of times, turned, and walked away.

AN: Woohoo, we've hit the 50 followers mark! Thank you very much all my followers, and a big thanks to the usual suspects for their reviews as well.

One of my friends pointed out that this chapter raises a bit of a question about their ages, so thought I'd just explain: In this version of events Dherlock would have been younger as he ran around London with John, around his midtwenties (while John would have been about 30) and was infected at around 27, let's say. Molly would be late teens/early twenties at this point in the story, having been just about old enough to take care of herself when her Dad died. Hope that all makes sense to you guys.

See you all Wednesday for the next instalment.