I'm sorry there's been such a gap. Summer holidays, trying to catch up with work, and all that… Chapter 12 should follow fairly quickly (for me, anyway) - it's mostly written, but I had the split a potentially massive chapter into 2 user-friendly chunks. My thanks, as always, to all you lovely, lovely reviewers! And also, the usual disclaimers apply – not mine, no money.
I realise that I may have got the timing wrong on Sherlock's escape – apparently it was the evening, quite possibly on the same day as Janine's visit, when he was discovered missing. Oh well, never mind! Let's stretch it a little…!
Also, the first scene here is taken directly from the episode and as far as I can tell, it's not possible to tell whether Molly is talking to Greg, John or Mary. I've decided to assume that it's Greg. It's interesting the people that the three of them seek out – John goes to Mrs H. (Sherlock's pseudo-Mummy and a part of their little 'family' structure), Greg goes to Mycroft and possibly Molly (the two people who helped Sherlock before, typical detective thinking), and clever Mary goes to the one person who is most likely to know where Sherlock is (fanboy Anderson)!
I have a bit of an issue with Mummy and Daddy Holmes, I must admit (not with Wanda and Tim, who are just gorgeous). I guess it was very clever for Moffatt and Gatiss to turn them into a sweet if a bit dotty couple with a taste for West End musicals, but it did make me wonder how they'd produced not just one but two highly intelligent sociopaths. Sherlock and Mycroft behave as if they had sub-normal, if not completely traumatic, childhoods, and then there's that flashback in His Last Vow of Sherlock with his dog in that big stately home, so why are they suddenly in a cottage having a cosy family Christmas? Odd. Why was Sherlock 'such a disappointment' in his memory, and to who? Mummy apparently gave up being a genius mathematician for her children's sake, Daddy is just utterly normal, and they're clearly a loving couple. Were they disappointed because Sherlock was socially inept? And… is there a third son called Sherrinford?! It gets more mysterious…! Although I felt they were a bit of a weakness in terms of not making entire sense (to me, anyway), I do hope the parents return in the fourth, just so we can all enjoy Wanda and Tim again! And I have faith that Moffatt and Gatiss will make all clear.
Chapter 11
She looked up at Greg across the canteen table in disbelief. She was on a late today and halfway through her tea break when the DI arrived at 5.30, looking extremely pissed off.
"Really? I saw him last night and he didn't look well enough to get out of bed for days, let alone climb out of a window just a few hours later."
He shook his head grimly. "That's Sherlock for you. Anyway, we're trying to track him down."
"Why? What's he done?"
"What's he what? - Molly!" Greg's face was a picture. "He's done nothing, except potentially bleed out and die in the street! You can't tell me you're not worried – wait -." He peered at her suspiciously. "Did you help him? Have you seen him?"
She placed a hand over her heart. "I haven't - I promise. Don't you have any clues? Where would he normally go? Does Mycroft know?"
"Tried that." The irritation in his voice suggested to her that he'd been forced to go and see the 'British government' in person. There was no love lost between the two men due to frequent clashes over the years concerning Sherlock's well-being, so she could guess Greg's feelings about having to ask Mycroft for help.
"And?" She leaned back in her chair, sipping her coffee.
"No luck. No sign of him in any of the usual boltholes. I wondered…" He sounded a little awkward and Molly sat up a little straighter. Here it comes. "Well, I know he must have stayed with you from time to time during those years…"
"Yes, he did." She frowned at the speculative look on Greg's face. "Just the spare bedroom." She flushed – Greg knew as well as she did that the 'spare bedroom' in her flat was basically a box room in which she kept various odds and ends, and that no one had ever slept in it. "Well -," she admitted, "- my bedroom. We agreed he needed the space…"
Greg nodded, a degree of understanding on his face. He probably knew better than anyone what a bloody nuisance Sherlock could be as a house guest if he didn't have his own space. Actually, she'd slept in the couch whenever he'd stayed, and he hadn't been any particular trouble, much to her surprise. He might have been too preoccupied or just too tired to make much fuss.
She took a swig of her vending machine coffee and grimaced at the artificial taste. Greg was staring at her as if he'd never seen her before.
"What?"
"You really aren't worried, are you?" He shook his head again. "I don't think I've ever known you to be this calm when it comes to Sherlock."
She thought back to Sherlock's words the previous day. There is a purpose to everything I do. If you don't trust me to know what's best, then you don't know me at all.
She took another casual sip and shrugged, trying to appear calmer than she actually felt. "Oh, I'm concerned, of course. But what can I do? If you and Mycroft and John can't find him, there's no chance I will."
He narrowed his eyes. "Are you absolutely certain he's not at your flat? He could break in, couldn't he?"
She considered this for a minute. It was true that Sherlock had always been able to break in if she wasn't there.
She looked up at Greg. "Why would he, though? What would he want from me that he couldn't get at home or at the hospital? He only ever came to me when he needed rest or food and couldn't go to Baker Street for it. And, anyway, if he wanted to get away from you, he wouldn't come to my flat, surely? He'd be halfway across the country or something."
He sighed, seeming to accept her logic. "Yeah, OK, well if he does get in touch, let me know. Just to put me out of my misery if nothing else."
"Sure. And can you let me know if you find him?"
He nodded and turned away.
She watched him go and, once he was out of sight, dug her mobile out of her lab coat pocket. There were no messages. She hesitated, thinking for a moment before sending a text.
Lestrade thinks you're at my flat. MH.
The answer came almost immediately.
How dull of him. SH.
She sat back after reading this and considered. It was a little ambiguous – did he mean that it was a ridiculous assumption to make or that it was dull of Greg to be looking for him in the first place? While she was deciding what to text next, another message came through.
I can almost feel the cogs turning. I'm not there, so don't bother asking. SH.
Well, that cleared that up. She thought for a moment before sending another message.
Try not to bleed out. MH.
This time, it was nearly five minutes before he replied.
Endeavouring not to. SH.
That was not entirely reassuring…however, there wasn't much she could do. She glanced at her watch and put her phone away to hurry back to work.
She had news from Greg just as she came off duty at midnight. It was short and to the point.
Found and back in hospital. Internal bleeding but he'll be OK. GL.
She put her mobile away, letting out a tense breath that she hadn't been aware of holding. She didn't like to badger Greg or John immediately for further details, as they were both probably asleep by now, or at least wishing they were. However, the following morning, she phoned Greg and got more details.
It appeared that John and Mary had found Sherlock somewhere in London and brought him back to Baker Street, where he then collapsed and an ambulance was called. He'd been taken to the nearest A&E and taken in for emergency surgery but, again, Mycroft intervened and he was transferred back to the private hospital the following day. She had visions of guards being posted at every exit to try to stop the detective absconding again, although by all accounts he really was too unwell to move this time.
She left it a couple of days before visiting again. As she approached his room along a quiet, carpeted corridor in the private hospital – the same room, she noted, wondering briefly whether it was permanently reserved for members of the Holmes family – the door opened. A small sixty-something woman with short white hair emerged from the room, followed by Mycroft Holmes, looking as frazzled as she had ever seen him.
Molly stopped, not sure what to do, as the woman approached without noticing her. She was too busy talking over her shoulder at Mycroft.
"…and what is the point of you working for MI6 or 7 or whatever the number is these days, if you can't find out who did it? I mean, really Myc, I'm disappointed in you. I ask you to keep an eye on my boy -."
"Well, I can hardly watch him all the time, Mother," came the tired reply. "I do have a full-time job, you know. And a country to run."
Molly had a strong feeling he'd had this conversation many times before.
"Nonsense! What could be more important than your own brother's safety? I don't want to hear any more of your prattle about running the country. It's just the same as when you were boys and he -." Mrs Holmes came to a halt, seeming to notice Molly for the first time. "Well, hello! Are you here for my son? The other one, I mean?"
Molly found herself in the bizarre position of facing a member of the Holmes' family who was actually smiling in a genuine manner, rather than the artificial grimaces that both brothers seemed to specialise in. What made it even more confusing was that this friendly stranger was, quite obviously, Sherlock's mother. She had many of his features, moulded into a more feminine shape and looked as if she had been a beauty in her younger days. Even now, she was an attractive woman. Her most striking features were her eyes, which had the same unusual characteristic as her younger son's – an ever-changing hue that was very blue at the moment. There was considerable intelligence in those eyes too, and they examined Molly with the same keen intensity, but the scrutiny was somehow kinder and less invasive.
Mycroft featured her much less; Molly presumed he resembled their father more. Nevertheless, he wore the slightly put-upon expression that was universal to adult sons with formidable mothers.
"Um, yes – I'm Molly Hooper." She shook Mrs Holmes' proffered hand, adding hastily, "I work at Bart's in the laboratory, and Sherlock -."
"Ah yes, of course!" The woman took her hand in both of her own and her eyes sparkled. "I know all about you, of course. Sherlock's father and I have always wanted to thank you for helping him during that dreadful time, but Myc thought it better not -."
"Probably best not discussed in a public area, Mother," Mycroft interrupted smoothly, with just a hint of steel in his eyes.
Mrs Holmes rolled her eyes. "Hardly a public area, Mycroft. Well, it's lovely meeting you at last, dear. You must come and visit us at home some time. We live the Cotswolds, you know, right out in the country. A lovely cottage, quite different from London… I'd like to take Sherlock back with me to recover properly, but Mycroft doesn't seem to think that he will want to travel there. It's not worth visiting him today, by the way. He's been sedated – he was asleep the whole time we were there, I did hope he would wake up but…"
Mycroft took her politely by the arm. "I've arranged a car, which is right outside, Mother, and my assistant is waiting to escort you. Didn't you want to go straight home tonight?"
"Oh, yes, of course." She bestowed a last charming smile on Molly and allowed herself to be towed away by her older son, who was clearly attempting to be polite but failing. Molly smiled a little at the sight of him tapping his foot with ill-concealed impatience as his mother stopped to speak to one of the doctors further up the corridor.
She watched until they were out of sight and then stood for a moment, irresolute. It was tempting to take a peek anyway, just in case Sherlock had woken up, but she was still trying to decide what to do, when Mycroft returned, looking a little weary.
"I do apologise. My mother can be overwhelming," he said to her, by way of greeting.
"She seemed nice actually." Molly thought of her own mother, now a retired GP living fairly quietly in a Hertfordshire village. She'd been the practical, sensible kind of mother – not unloving but a little restrained in her emotions. Molly had always been closer to her father when growing up. Nowadays, her mum was clearly proud of her daughter in her own quiet way, was still as practical and sensible as ever and was always happy to help Molly out financially. However, Molly found Mrs Holmes' air of intelligence combined with slight dottiness rather charming.
Mycroft raised his eyebrows in what looked to be genuine surprise.
"It's unlikely that he will have woken up in the meantime," he said, as Molly glanced towards Sherlock's door. "He asked the doctor to increase his sedation purely because he knew our mother was on her way. He's trying to avoid any discussion of being dragged back to the cottage to convalesce."
She giggled at the thought of Sherlock ensconced in a cottage, miles away from his experiments and criminals and beloved city.
He looked a little startled at her amusement, but gave her a polite nod. "Well. The work does not stop, even if my mother trivialises its importance in relation to my dear little brother. Good afternoon, Miss Hooper."
He made to turn away. She was struck by the sheer weariness in his body posture. Much to her own astonishment, she suddenly felt sorry for Mycroft Holmes. She had the impression that, for all his money and possessions and the support staff surrounding him, the man was terribly lonely. And it couldn't be easy being Sherlock's older brother, trying to span the gulf between the consulting detective and his parents. She could imagine a younger Mycroft constantly being harangued for Sherlock's perceived shortcomings.
It must have been some mad, suicidal impulse that made her speak. "Er, actually, there was something…I wanted to ask…"
She could see the momentary hesitation, the stiffening of his shoulders, before he turned around. He gave his usual inquiring smile, what she thought of as his 'professional face', but there was something a little stilted about it.
"Yes, Miss Hooper? Is there something I can help you with?"
"Actually, I was wondering if you would like to get a coffee? Or tea? Just… you look tired, and I wondered…but it's probably stupid, I mean you can get coffee at work…but…" She swallowed and tried to force a smile on her face. "Would you care to join me?"
He stared at her, appearing to be lost for words. She squirmed, a little uncomfortably under his incredulous expression.
"Um, well, not to worry… I don't even know where there's coffee around here anyway…" she murmured and made to pass him.
"Do I hear you right, Miss Hooper? You – are inviting me – to accompany you for a drink?"
"Well, just a tea or coffee," she extemporised. "And you can call me Molly – er, if you like, of course."
He still looked a little stunned. "Good heavens. You must excuse me, Miss Hooper, but I cannot quite recall the last time I received such an invitation."
She flushed, suddenly a little angry. "Yes, well, I suppose I can't really match all those ambassadorial receptions - ."
"No – you misunderstand me. I meant only that I have not received a casual social invitation for…longer than I remember." His lips twitched wryly. "I cannot imagine why."
She flushed even more, as she realised that he might get entirely the wrong impression of her motivations. "I mean, it's not a… I just – I thought you looked as if you could do with a drink."
He laughed grimly. "Miss Hooper, you have no idea." He raised an eyebrow. "Well…I can certainly spare an hour…"
She laughed, nervously. "I don't know if there's somewhere around here..."
He hesitated for a moment, giving her a speculative look, and then seemed to make a quick decision. "I know of a place nearby, if you don't object to a short car ride…?"
When she nodded her assent, he politely ushered her along the corridor. As he did so, he took out his mobile and spoke some terse, quiet instructions into it, presumably to his mysterious assistant.
Molly bit her lip and followed him, wondering what temporary madness had made her think it would be a good idea to invite the mysterious and quite certainly dangerous Mycroft Holmes to tea.