Another chapter! Hip hip-review!
I woke up randomly and decided to knock out this chapter, and then I knocked out more of my original work (People who take ten years to write a novel, I finally understand you, but you still infuriate me) and even did some revising. I've been productive! A miracle!
"But you're Molly."
After that nothing but the sound of their own breathing, and the buzzing noise the old lighting possessed could be heard in the room. Molly's lips were pressed in a thin line as she stared at Sherlock, her arms crossed across her chest, not defensively, but as part of her relaxed but constantly alert stance by the door. Sherlock took in the sight of her; She had quickly thrown on the clothing she wore, a hooded jacket he didn't recognize and combat boots, old, worn, at least four years in age, a Glock, an exact replica of the one found in her flat during her kidnapping—that harrowing time seemed miles away at that moment—and her hair was down, falling in frizzing waves around her face. In short, Molly had managed to shatter any faith he had in his skills even, beyond that of Moriarty. He would have even admitted that she was his friend.
Molly waited for him to break the silence, but his mind was still processing, still trying to piece together her story and ultimately failing miserably. He was confused, and barely heard the click of the door being unlocked from the outside. Waiting, Molly took the intruder and quietly dispatched him, slamming him against a table and cutting his jugular with a combat knife produced from a pocket. This was the new Molly that greeted him, the Molly in a greasy hoodie with blood on her hands. If he had been conceited enough, he would have thought that this happened because of him, but obviously it did not. She had years—years—of experience that showed themselves through muscle memory and a resigned expression.
She gave an apologetic smile, wiping her hands on her jacket and stepping over the slowly dying body, "There's always a bit of a mess, sorry." She sighed, pulling off the jacket to reveal a black tank top, and threw it in a closet, "Well that should do it. We ought to wait approximately thirty minutes before—"
"Molly." Sherlock cursed himself for repeating her name yet again, and decided to elaborate, "What are you doing here?"
With the black tank top came a number of scars that were visible along her shoulders, as well as a particularly nasty yellowing bruise.
"What does it look like I'm doing?" She gave a short and bitter laugh, "Saving your arse, I am."
"But—"
"Let's sit Sherlock." She pulled two uncomfortable stools from their places at the table, and gestured for Sherlock to sit. He did so, "This is thirty minutes, Sherlock. Twenty-eight, now actually. I'm sure you're mind palace is a wreck right now."
"I trusted you."
Molly laughed, tossing her hair back, "And you were right to. You're alive, aren't you?"
"Does Moriarty know?"
"Certainly not. If it had to be spelled out for you, then he'll be a little slow on the uptake." She leaned in on the palm of her hand, "So we should be good for a bit, yeah?"
"You lied about everything."
"Just like you lied in saying Irene Adler was dead." Sherlock jerked, looking up at her in surprise, and before he could ask, she plunged into an explanation, "I faked her death once or twice."
"…so is this some sort of habit for you?"
Molly shrugged, "I've made a bit of a name for myself for it. They call me The Reaper. Funny cliché name huh?"
Sherlock was in no mood for her random commentary, "Who are you?"
"To you, I'm Molly Hooper. I'm a pathology assistant working at St. Barts—"
"No." He hated this, he couldn't tell when she was lying, "Really."
"I'm nobody. I don't count. I slip in, I slip out, and I'm designed to fool people like you." Molly seemed almost sad about this—he couldn't tell, and that was both terrifying and infuriating—"Actually I found the major part was making myself so boring that you would never look at me twice. So Sherlock, now that I've given you a few of the pieces, and yes, the real pieces I want you to do something with this time we have." She smirked, an expression that Sherlock had never seen cross her face before, "Deduce me."
Sherlock pressed his hands together, his index fingers barely touching his mouth as he examined this Molly—this Not Molly, who sat before him, "You're early life upbringing was educated, but you also show signs of being rough and can think on your feet superbly. You're attention to detail rivals even mine allowing you to slip into disguises and new personalities seamlessly for your work. Military training and mob experience both had a hand in your combative and tactical knowledge. Most of your medical knowledge before becoming Molly Hooper was almost completely theoretical except for field dresses to quickly exit an area. Pragmatic and calculative, in any sexual encounter, you would use birth control, so Anna is a bit of a mystery at first."
"At first?"
"You wouldn't have ever had her if you knew she was going to be exposed to the dangers you are, and frankly she would have gotten in the way, so you must have been retired. Married most likely, and spent that retirement in peace until something caused you to become Molly Hooper, and caused Anna to be separated from you until a month ago. You became Molly Hooper to work for someone and encountered me.
Sherlock watched her reaction carefully, but all he received was a soft, almost mocking smile. It was uncomfortable, not knowing whether or not he was correct and very uncomfortable knowing that the woman he trusted with his life was a complete lie of a person. Reconstructing what he knew about her was difficult, and he found himself second guessing everything that he deduced and especially what she said. It was one thing for Irene Adler to trick him, but entirely another for sweet little simpering lab assistant Molly to. That Molly liked the color pink and had bad taste in boyfriends. This Molly could slit a man's throat and have a conversation over his newly dead corpse. That same smile was there, and she leaned forward with her elbows resting on her knees.
"Pretty damn close." She whispered before leaning back again, "Congratulations."
"I still don't know your name."
"My name's Molly. That's the only name I'll give you. Not even my husband knew my real name, Sherlock."
"I trusted you." He sounded like a broken record, "I trusted you, Molly."
"Good. That makes this easier, trust me to get us home and in one piece."
"You…weren't lying about shooting two snipers, were you?"
"Nor was I lying about the Jammie Dodgers. Twenty-four hour grocery services are God's gift to mankind."
Sherlock snorted, but tried to get back on track, "Who do you work for? Why are you helping me?"
"Who I'm working for is under wraps, and I'm helping you because that's what my orders are.
Madeline did not take well to getting shot. No one in their right mind did. A burst of light blurred her vision as she slowly stumbled away from a barely claimed and very hollow victory. She didn't know where she was. Street names and blinking lights meant nothing to her, only the pain in her leg and the prospect of being caught with an illegally concealed weapon filled her mind. It was then that she ran into someone, a man walking about Toronto at three in the morning.
"Oh, shit miss are you—you've been shot." His voice grew flat and suddenly he was lifting her, "Ah, no struggling, please I really don't want to drop you."
"No hospitals." Madeline managed to choke out, despite her confusion.
People in a city saw things every day, but never did a thing about it. They developed a sense of apathy that rivaled any spoiled middle class teenager. From the start, this man was different, she knew that much. Others would make up excuses not to help her. She's drunk and limping, her bleeding leg obviously from something stupid she did. She's not my concern. I didn't see her. Yet this man was dragging her somewhere—hopefully not a hospital—and going out of his way to either help her or add insult to injury and finally kill her.
Not once did she pass out, so she saw the building number, and knew that they were going to the third floor. She looked around the loft apartment from her position on the couch, noticing little details. Single male living alone, often at home, most likely has family money, but works as something freelance like an artist or writer—no not an artist, there is no sign of him enjoying visual art—there's an entire wall of well read books though.
He came back, and she immediately got to add another trait to her list; medical training.
"You're good at this." She commented, watching him sew the skin together after extracting the bullet and examining it's damage. "It's probably not safe to randomly invite strangers into your apartment."
"You said no hospitals." He shrugged "I'm assuming you got this doing something illegal.
"Not illegal, per say, but incredibly stupid. Rapists don't take well to being interrupted." Madeline gave a hollow laugh, "He shot me, I stabbed him in the throat. That's where this is from." She gestured at the blood covering her shirt beneath her jacket. "So I could argue self defense, and therefore it wasn't technically illegal."
"But you're shady enough not to want to go to a hospital."
"True, true." She tried to laugh, but found that it caught in her throat, "I'm Madeline."
"Is that your real name?"
"Nope."
"Okay, then." He stuck out and shook her slightly limp hand, "Parker Pyne. I worked as a paramedic for a bit so I can do stuff like this, no problem. Nice to meet you."
"You're quite trusting, Parker Pyne." He laughed at her statement, perplexing her slightly. Madeline wasn't used to the sound of laughter, she realized, not the kind that held no bitterness.
"Well I trust you not to murder me in my sleep."
"Good. I trust you not to slip cyanide in my coffee."
Sherlock followed her, taking note of everything, from the way she walked to the way she constantly looked around as if waiting for something to leap out at them. Unsurprisingly, a man did, and he had managed to get a good cut at Molly with his knife before he was dead. Molly Hooper had always seemed like the sort to make a large deal out of injury, but even as he saw the slightly darker blood stain grow on her back, she continued walking at the exact same pace. They took an odd route to Molly's flat, and avoided cameras entirely. Her awareness of her environment was impressive, and he wondered how he could have possibly missed it.
"You're an expert." Sherlock stated, as she closed her bedroom door behind her.
"Yeah, I suppose you could say that." She called out from the other room "Oh it's dried. It won't come out." He heard her say to herself.
"Really, you shouldn't make yourself so comfortable. You're completely healed now." Madeline didn't look at Parker, she simply wrapped her arms about her legs and continued reading a book. More specifically it was one of the textbooks he had written for forensic pathology.
"You're good at this. Fiction and nonfiction is impressive." She spoke at last, flipping the page.
"I would have thought you had more pressing matters to attend to than analyzing my work."
"Nope." Parker settled down next to her, "They think I'm dead."
"What?"
"Found a girl, looked a lot like me, with her face bashed in. Word on the street is the Reaper is dead."
"Oh."
"So Madeline de Sara is officially a librarian now. I'll probably be able to get my own place within a week or two."
"Librarians don't make a lot and Toronto isn't cheap—"
"If you want me to stay, say so." She gave a funny little half smile, and he returned it, but found that he could not sustain one for long without it broadening.
"Then stay."
Molly had accidentally left the door open slightly, and when her cat rushed in, it had opened even wider. So she hadn't realized that Sherlock could see her yet, and if she did, it didn't matter. She took off her shirt, revealing dozens of scars that littered it. Two gunshot wounds, sixteen different scars made from knives, mottled skin where she had been burned—there was very little unmarred skin to be had. Sherlock realized he knew nothing about Molly and when she made her claim, it had been legitimate. She really had shot two snipers in the head. Then there was the gash she had tended to quickly with butterfly band aids and gauze, adding to the complete puzzle.
She was the girl in the skylight.
"Where are those from?" He asked before remembering that it generally wasn't good form to comment on a topless girl's appearance.
She craned her neck to look at him as she tossed a T-shirt over her head, "Oh. Loads of things, bad fights mainly. That weird star shaped one's from the time that a Russian lady decided to run me down in her car."
Sherlock didn't notice how close he was until he reached out and touched the gunshot wound on her left shoulder, feeling the scarred tissue beneath his fingertips. Molly stiffened beneath his touch, but didn't move away, "Who are you?"
"What's important is that I'm helping you." She turned towards him, placing a hand on his chest and looking up into his eyes with intensity that he wondered how he could have possibly missed, "I'm helping you, Sherlock, so whatever you say next, don't delete that from your mind."
"How long?"
"For the duration of my stay at Barts." He didn't know why she was still touching him, still trying to inspire a closeness that was gone, and arguably never there, but he didn't recoil from her touch, "I'm a friend."
"You lied to me."
Molly drew closer, "Yes, yes I did. Your greatest weakness is that you do not pay any mind to that which is boring. Things have to be complicated, or you don't notice them, you delete them. That's what you did to me, over and over again. Someone had to protect that weakness of yours. Otherwise you would have been dead long ago."
"And what did you have to gain from that?"
She smiled, poking him in the forehead, "Money and my daughter, silly."
He asked it before he could think better of it, "Did you ever actually like me?"
Out loud, it sounded even more silly, childlike, and sentimental than he had anticipated.
"If I didn't, I'd probably have shot you myself. You're very high maintenance you know."
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