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…
Mycroft reached out a hand to help Molly slide onto the floor from her seat on the hospital bed. She felt a little off wearing the clothes that Mycroft's PA had bought for her: incredibly skinny blue trousers and a soft, dark mustard-colour knit top that clung everywhere. Black knee-high boots. Black lingerie, matching, expensive, and a fitted black coat. She looked good, just not like herself. Molly had to hand it to Anthea, the mustard colour looked great on her and she had never considered it.
Usually, finding a doctor to discharge one from hospital took hours. Mycroft had cleared Molly to leave within 5 minutes of the country's top neurologist declaring her well enough to move. Molly didn't know how he'd gotten Dr Singh to check out what appeared to be a pretty standard-issue head wound; she only needed five stitches. He normally practiced across the city at King's. Molly would have to be watched over while she slept for another night, but Mary had volunteered for that duty.
Mycroft put his arm out for her; she didn't have the feeling that accepting was optional. He steered her through the corridors of Barts to the main exit. Anthea rushed up to them just before they walked out the doors, stopped Molly and looped a thick, warm scarf in the same mustard shade around her neck. She then propped a pair of large sunglasses onto Molly's nose. To shade against the fierce winter sun of London? Molly wondered.
"It's very cold, so wear the scarf," Anthea explained. "And photographers."
Sure enough, as soon as Mycroft opened the door for her, lightbulbs started flashing. He led her down the front steps and straight into a waiting black sedan with tinted windows. Anthea closed the car door behind her. Molly felt like she was leaving a trendy club at 2am, rather than being discharged from hospital at 2.30 on an overcast Tuesday afternoon.
Mycroft slid into the seat next to her. He reached over to pull the redundant sunglasses off her face.
"How are you feeling, Molly?" he asked, a bit anxiously.
"You just paid Dr Singh an extraordinary amount of money to tell you that I'm just fine. I have a headache and I'll get dizzy easily for a few days, but I'm basically fine. I just want you to tell me about Sherlock."
"We'll be at St Thomas' in … how long, Anthea?"
Anthea looked from the spot in the passenger seat where she was transfixed by her phone. "23 minutes, with traffic," she said.
"And John says he's going to be okay?" Molly asked, for the sixth time that day.
"Yes, I promise, he'll be okay," Mycroft smiled, actually smiled, at her. Molly briefly wondered if someone had slipped Mycroft some of the MDMA.
Molly leaned back in the car seat, taking care not to aggravate the stitches. She watched the wet city streets slide by, and hoped that everything Mycroft was telling her was the truth, for once.
…
Sherlock was unsurprised to find that Molly's room in his Mind Palace was now kitted out with a bed. His bed, to be exact. Her sheets, though. Molly had a peculiarity about white sheets. Soft, almost satiny, very high thread count, white sheets. She found his caramel-coloured sheets "creepy".
Still, the appearance of his bed in her room prompted some questioning. Sherlock wandered through another part of his Mind Palace where his bed had once resided: his treehouse in his parent's garden. Redbeard was always, faithfully, asleep on top of the (blue) sheets. He opened the door of the treehouse. No bed. No Redbeard, either, which startled him. "Here, boy," he called. "Redbeard." Sherlock clapped and called, walking back out into the corridor and shutting the door to the treehouse behind him. Everything was misfiling. He frowned. Then he spotted Redbeard, wagging furiously and sitting outside Molly's room, scratching to be let in. "Traitor," Sherlock said to the dog. "Now you're moving in with her, too? She owns a cat, you know."
He opened the door. The room flooded with bright afternoon light from the windows (there were three, now), like the warmest day of July. There would be hours more of sunlight in a cloudless sky. Redbeard dove around his legs and galumphed happily to Molly. She sat straight and watchful on the bed, smiling at the dog. She patted the perfect sheets and he jumped up easily, licking her hand and wagging. He turned his snout around and looked for Sherlock, whipping his tail back and forth in happy anticipation as Sherlock drew near. Molly dove out of the way of his tail, laughing. She wore one of his shirts, white as the sheets, with the sleeves rolled up and buttoned in a way that made it clear she had nothing else on underneath. She lay giggling on the bed, her long, chestnut hair spread out in contrast to the bedding, her skin golden and pale in the sunlight. She smiled at him and patted spot next to her on the bed.
Here boy, she laughed.
Sherlock sat next to her and ran his knuckles lovingly across her face while she smiled straight into his eyes. He looked around the room. His violin and his music were arranged near the far window, right next to a bookcase filled entirely with his most treasured books.
What are you doing?
You asked me to move in. And in contrast to reality in Baker Street, in here it seems that you move in with me. You may want to reconsider your filing system, before my room is bigger than the rest of the palace and crammed with all your stuff.
Sherlock looked nervously around the room. There were some of her things, but so many more of his. He frowned.
Stop, she said. Just look at me. This is so new, and you're overwhelmed, you just don't know where to put everything yet. You'll figure it out. She pulled Sherlock down to her and held his face in her hands, still smiling. I love you, Sherlock Holmes.
…
John pulled out a chair for Molly and set her paper cup of weak hospital-tea next to her on Sherlock's bedside table.
"We put him under for the surgery, but I would have expected him to surface hours ago," John explained. "It's like he doesn't want to come out of it."
Molly looked at John. "Mind palace?"
John nodded. "Yeah, he mentioned he was in there before we put him under, and um, you were there, possibly not entirely dressed…"
"Right, yes," Molly nodded to cut him off. "He's in his happy place rather than just sorting through clues."
John shifted his weight uncomfortably. "I thought that maybe if you were to try to call him back, he might, you know, come back for the real thing."
"Okay, right, well… could you leave us alone for a bit? Is he physically ready to wake?"
"Yes, he's fine. We stopped the bleeding in surgery and gave him a transfusion. His vitals are strong. He's ready."
John shut the door and left Molly alone with Sherlock. She immediately unzipped her boots and settled herself onto the spot next to Sherlock on the bed. She brushed his hair away from his face; he had a dark purple bruise and two stitches on the right side of his face, and she wondered how that had happened. She couldn't remember. She lifted the sheets and searched out the leg wound. Low on his left thigh was the dressing, clean and white and clinical. She didn't want to wake him by pulling it away to inspect the surgery site.
She took both of his hands in hers and rubbed her thumbs lightly across his palms. "Sherlock," she said softly. "Wake up for me. John's getting worried, and it's time for you to wake."
He drew his eyebrows together in concentration, as though something had confused him, but he did not open his eyes.
"Sherlock," she called again. "You're in your Mind Palace, and I want you to wake up and tell me all about it, okay?"
Nothing.
Molly sighed. She leaned over his body and brought her lips near his ear, while at the same time dropping his hands and running her fingers up and down his body. "Sherlock," she whispered, "whatever I'm doing to you in there is nothing compared to what I can do for you out here. Come out and play." She kissed the uninjured part of his jawline. "I'll make you feel good."
Molly rested her forehead against his and waited; Sherlock's eyes fluttered open and looked up at her with perfect comprehension.
"You clearly have no idea what we're up to in there," he rasped. "I'm not sure you'd agree to it."
Molly smiled and kissed him gently. She thought that he still looked lit at half power. "We can negotiate later. Right now, John wants to see you."
…
Sherlock spent another 24 hours in the hospital. Mary spent 24 hours with Molly tucked into her spare room and six of Mycroft's agents watching the house. This seemed like overkill to both women, given that Mycroft had himself shot dead all three men who had abducted Molly and Sherlock. Anthea dropped over a bag of essentials for Molly, including lots of brand-new clothing, none of it Molly's own. She just wanted her worn, comfortable flannel pyjamas; instead she had black silk leggings and a revealing top.
Tom spent 24 hours locked in a holding cell at DCI Lestrade's request, waiting for Sherlock to wake up and tell him why he'd needed to arrest Tom in the first place. Greg just hoped that whatever the reason turned out to be, it would justify the suspicion of terrorism concerns they'd had to file with the Home Office to keep Tom in his cell and away from lawyers.
Greg interviewed both Irene and Molly. They had information, but mainly on the suspects themselves, who were now dead. Neither woman knew why Sherlock had wanted Tom arrested; the idea appalled Molly. She spent much of her night at Mary and John's house pacing the floor and trying to figure out his connection. Tom might hate her but he'd never seemed a threatening or intimidating force before. Not even a little bit.
When Greg was finally able to speak to Sherlock, back in Baker Street and recovering, the lack of evidence nearly made him stab Sherlock through the other leg.
"You had me arrest Tom, on frankly no evidence whatsoever, because some nutjob mentioned his name during a kidnapping?"
"Greg, Tom might have contracted Molly's kidnap and murder," Sherlock insisted. "I couldn't just pass out from blood loss and possibly die without knowing he was being detained and investigated. I figured that even you would figure out what needed to be done."
Greg waited. Insult or no, he had no clue what Sherlock wanted him to do and he wasn't going to guess and leave himself open to further ridicule.
"Check out the other victims! We need to find out if they had any jealous ex-lovers who they had promised to marry, and then changed their minds. Something like that. It might be that these men are tapping into this cult when they need it, or it's possible that the cult picked up stories and then acted on its own."
Greg nodded. He texted Donovan to retract the Home Office terrorism notification and release Tom.
"Very well, Sherlock, I am letting Tom go. I feel certain that your brother will put a bullet through his head if he makes any attempt to harm Molly again. And I'll investigate the other deaths to see if there's a connection. That will do until you're back on your feet."
Greg pushed himself wearily off the chair. "I hope he wasn't involved. That would be a horrible thing for Molly to learn."
Sherlock shrugged. "I think it makes me look like the safe, stable choice, which very few of us were expecting."
Greg walked out the door. "Poor Molly." He shook his head and stomped down the stairs.
The minute Greg shut the door, Sherlock picked up his phone to text Molly.
Are you coming home?
Home? No. Also no to Baker Street for tonight, sorry, so tired. I'll come back in the morning.
This is your home. I'm your home.
I love you, Sherlock. Stop pestering me to move in.
Anthea's been by. She packed up all your clothes and left new ones hanging in my closet. It happened before I got back, before you ask.
Molly seethed. Please keep that woman away from me, Sherlock. Tell your brother. I feel manipulated enough without her treating me like her personal dress-up doll.
Sherlock pulled open a drawer that had contained Molly's collection of cotton, M&S knickers. He picked up a very small satin thong in bright blue that had not been there before. It seemed to match a sheer bra of the same shade. Everything in the drawer had been replaced with a rainbow of skimpy lace and silk options.
I don't know. I like what she's done with your underwear drawer.
Oh my God… please don't let her in again.
It would be a shame for all her effort to have gone to waste. You should at least try some of this stuff on. If you don't like it, I'll rip it off you…
Molly snorted. I'm sure you will. G'night, Sherlock. I'll be home tomorrow morning.
Sherlock thought about pointing out that she'd just referred to Baker Street as home. Instead he just smiled to himself, and sat down for a closer inspection of Anthea's lingerie selection.