HELLO. SO MANY SAD COMMENTS AND REVIEWS. I REVELLED IN THEM.
I mean, it was extremely satisfying as a writer to see people so -
Eh, I just revelled in them. So many people wanted to slap Sherlock that I almost wondered if he deserved a happy ending. HE DOES, THOUGH. HE'S A FLUFFY EMOTIONALLY CONSTIPATED BABY.
Anyway, today we have Thomas Moore in the title with the original line being "O breath not his name." Bringing in the Irish.
On another note, there's just one chapter left till the end after this one. I feel so empty? Anyway, let's go on.
Kimberly: there's only one chapter left, so it must be coming ;)
a fan: thank you! I smiled at that review :)
Sara: Hahaha, he should, shouldn't he? But I am glad you liked it.
NJ: you know, I didn't consider that Sherlock was projecting, but now that you've said it...
Al: once again, you and my beta have a lot in common. She was ready to force him in a fryer or something.
abstain: Hello! I liked your description XD. Shakespeare and angst. Nice. Adler and Molly are incidentally my fav females. Absolute favourites. Less cliffhangers now, because only one chapter after this :D
Dear Elizabeth,
I have a few letters which I have neglected to post. Please, post the ones addressed to Mr. Williams, and to Mr. Bell. My writing table also contains a few papers that need to be returned to their drawers. Aside from that, take care, my dear. I will return from London as soon as it is in my power.
Eat healthy, for the baby needs all the strength it can get. This time, Elizabeth – I want a girl.
On another note, I wanted to ask you how feasible it would be to cheer Margaret up with some of her favourite food. I will do my level best to get whatever she likes from London, Elizabeth – including whatever you put in that list of yours. She has been looking extremely off colour for the past few days.
I hope I see you soon.
Yours,
John Ashford
Sherlock ignored the destruction of his room ever since he had stopped allowing Mrs. Hudson or Anne to clean it. His possessions were in a permanent state of needing dusting, and Sherlock was smoking to help them along.
Molly Hooper had been crying. He had deduced that she was a crier, but she had made it such a point not to do so around him that seeing her cry had made him feel cold. She had been crying because of him. There was something very terrifying about a Molly Hooper who could be brought to tears because of him.
He refused to acknowledge how empty the house felt without... her. He did want her back, but he chalked it up (as savagely as possible) to the remnants of the sentiment that had brought him to this position.
Apart from that, distractions were constantly needed. Any case was being welcomed with open arms for now, rating be damned. He didn't much care for how boring it was – because sometimes, when he was alone, he could swear that his mind had become more quiet. This was a terrible possibility, because it only meant that he had become soft with whatever the woman had done to him.
This was more disgusting than everything else combined, if he could be honest. What was he supposed to do, the spurned lover? Sit, brood, think to himself about how beautiful the colour of her cheeks was? Wonder at how much they could have done together? Picture their family together?
It was ridiculous even pretending to do those things. Sherlock did not know what to say or who to say it to, but he knew for a fact that he was not going to be a Petrarchan lover of the cruel mistress. Neither he nor Molly fit the stereotype correctly.
She was lying down on the window seat, ignoring the impropriety of being found in such a position. She wanted to be alone, but Lizzie was insisting on being with her a lot more these days. Then again, whenever Molly was alone, all she wanted was company. When she had company, she felt like jumping off the tallest towers of London.
She ignored Jane Austen, for her version of romance was terribly convenient. She knew this was not true, but it was easier to see the happy resolution in Pride and Prejudice coming from the moment Mr. Darcy said that he was ruminating on how pretty Elizabeth's eyes were. It was easy to allow her heart to flutter when Captain Wentworth and Anne were together. It was a lot harder to get rid of the way her heart had started beating harder and faster at everything Sherlock did.
If heartache could be classified, it was not the way the woman looked coolly into the window distance while getting away from her One True Love by escaping into the country where her sister (mentioned, obviously, a few chapters prior to her entry), would conveniently be living.
Of course, there had to be a scene where the sister was asking just what was wrong with the girl, to prove to her, without a doubt, that yes, she had been in love with the One True Love.
No, heartache was not in these set scenes of romantic stories. Heartache lay in the way she itched to pick up Shakespeare again, but did not – out of anger. Heartache lay in the curiously empty way she considered that she had loved the 'One True Love' and how ridiculous life was when played by intelligent rules.
Heartache lay not in the unhappiness, but in the loneliness which you revelled in, but wanted gone.
"Well, Mr. Cubitt?" asked Sherlock. "What inane trouble with your wife brings you to this part of town?"
"I – how did you know, Mr. Holmes?"
"Don't give him a chance, sir," said Watson wearily on his side. "He has been bitter for a while now and prone to breaking people down to a point where the man would consider the axe murderer that is after them preferable to Mr. Holmes as a solution."
Sherlock glared at Watson.
"Well, I have an American wife – Elsie Patrick was her maiden name," said the slightly plump man slowly.
"Don't they always have an American wife?" asked Sherlock, rolling his eyes.
"Behave, Holmes," said Watson darkly.
"Either way – she received this message which has been driving her to distraction, Mr. Holmes –"
Sherlock looked at the script with the small men boredly. The cipher code wasn't particularly interesting but the use of small dancing men was curious.
Mrs. Hudson was watching as Anne continued to darn her stockings.
"All I'm saying is that he must have been really fond of her, Mrs. Hudson," she said.
"You and your tongue, young lady," said Mrs. Hudson. "Mr. Holmes often goes without meals and sleep."
"Not this frequently," said Anne. "I'd say he was heartbroken. Like in the stupid romance novels Molly read."
"Yes, well, life is more than that, dear," said Mrs. Hudson.
"Why should it be? They fall in love, they get married – they have children. Disgusting, I agree – but apt."
Mrs. Hudson would like to believe so. But she would prefer to not depend on it.
"Oh, don't take me seriously, Mrs. Hudson. I hardly ever take myself seriously."
Dear Doctor Hooper,
We are pleased to say that we have accepted your application to St Bartholomew's hospital. You will be expected by August, where your training period under Doctor Anderson will begin.
Yours &c,
Doctor Michael Stamford
Dear Doctor Hooper,
Your recommendation by Doctor John Watson makes us very hopeful of your position in St Bartholomew's. Doctor Watson is a highly esteemed Doctor, and one who is regarded very highly due to his association with the Army and with Mr. Holmes. Mycroft Holmes requested that your position be made permanent, however, I would like to discuss the details of your position and acceptance in St Bartholomew's. I will, unfortunately, have to venture into a more informal territory frequently for some reasons.
For one, your circumstances are unique for our time. However, since both Detective Inspector Lestrade and Doctor Watson recommended you highly, we were inclined to look into your application with more interest than normal. Doctor Anderson has raised no objection to your entry into the hospital (once again, having seen you work fairly frequently) as long as you continued to work with Mr. Holmes with the same efficiency that you have for the last two years.
You are expected to assist in Scotland Yard's investigations whenever you are needed. Doctor Anderson informs me that you are competent in this area. Regarding your pay and other important matters, we would be pleased if we could see you sometime during July to discuss them and formalise them.
Thanking you,
Doctor Michael Stamford
"So, missing Molly Hooper?" asked Mary.
"Just as much as you are about to miss your Knight, Mary," said Sherlock.
"I'm positively heartbroken," deadpanned Mary.
"You should be. Soon, you will lose."
"Your problem with chess, Mr. Holmes, is the way you estimate the pieces. The Knight is unique in the way he moves, hence take him out. The Queen is powerful in the way she can influence almost everything, so destroy her before she can cause too much havoc."
"And right now, you find yourself without two Camels, a Knight, and a Rook. How do you propose to win this time?" Sherlock leaned back on his chair.
Mary smiled. "You've done a very good job. Clearly, you're trying your best to prove your mental strength to me. But you underestimate how many pawns I have killed of yours, and how many remain with me."
"How does that matter?" asked Sherlock. "Pawns are useful only for defending your side."
"Exactly," said Mary. One of her pawns reached the end of the board, and Sherlock frowned as Mary's Knight came back to life. "Check," she said.
Sherlock swore, and shifted his king.
Mary shifted another pawn to the end of the board, and she created a second Queen.
"Check," she repeated.
Sherlock glared at her. He shifted his king.
Yet another pawn managed to reach the end of the board. There was another Rook on Mary's side. "Checkmate," she said.
He frowned.
"You always underestimate what a source of strength a pawn can be, Sherlock," sang Mary. "How powerful they can become when shoved in the right direction."
"Any other tips?" he asked through his teeth.
"Stop sacrificing your Queen just because it is supposed to be 'good strategy'," said Mary with a grin. "It's useless when you do it just for that, and it's becoming very old and predictable."
The atmosphere in the Ashford parlour was tense. Elizabeth Ashford was glaring at her sister while John looked upset and uncertain.
"You are not going to London to live alone!" said Lizzie angrily.
"And why should I not?" asked Molly. "Many people do. Many women do!"
"You are not one of those cycle riding hobbledehoys, Molly Hooper!" said Lizzie.
"And what's so terrible about being a cycle riding hobbledehoy?" asked Molly, just as angry.
John was watching her like she had declared that she was pregnant with the anti-Christ.
"It's not proper!" said Lizzie.
"Neither is a woman having a job, but here I am. If I am breaking rules, I might as well break them all."
"She will not listen to reason, John," said Lizzie, finally.
"Elizabeth," said John deliberately. "While I agree with whatever you are saying, I don't think she will listen to me any more than she will listen to reason."
"Astute," Molly commented.
"Allow her to go," said John. "It is, after all, her life. She is allowed to live the way she sees fit. It may not be a good way, but that will be her problem."
"Precisely," said Molly. "And Doctor Stamford is offering an excellent pay. Sarah's aunt owns the apartment I intend to rent, and she's giving me a good price. I will see whether or not it is a good way to live myself."
"It may be too late to return to the good way if you do this, Molly," said Lizzie.
"That," said Molly, "will be my problem."
Sherlock Holmes was in his room (one which had finally been cleaned by Anne). He was stoutly ignoring his lack of cases, the boredom which had not set in and the fact that his mind was wandering where he strictly did not want it going.
He stretched on his bed, and considered dying. Or making himself a solution which involved enhancers. For a very brief moment, Molly's disappointed face came into his vision, and he wrenched himself away from that image. He savagely wondered whether or not he should do what she would hate just for the sake of it.
There was a knock on the door. "Mr. Holmes?" said Mrs. Hudson. "There is a woman here to see you."
"I don't care," he said.
"I'm afraid she's rather insistent," said Mrs. Hudson.
Sherlock opened the door a crack, intent on giving Mrs. Hudson a piece of his mind, however – just behind Mrs. Hudson stood Irene Adler.
"What are you doing here?" he asked rudely. Mrs. Hudson bowed out of the room.
"Interestingly, I was going to ask you that," she said. "There have been disturbing rumours for the last few days that you, Mr. Holmes, have been taking the most deplorable of cases."
"How does it matter to you?" he asked.
"Considering how deeply involved in the criminal world I am, I would consider it my business to know why you are taking simple robberies."
"That is not why you are here, Woman," said Sherlock with gritted teeth. He opened the door, walking outside.
Irene Adler smirked at him. "I was here because I wanted to ask you how long you plan to continue your heartache, Mr. Holmes. My spies have been thrown off, the criminal world is wondering, and I was just... nosy. Unlike most of your friends, I am better at reading your 'heartache.'"
"Heartache?" he asked her vehemently. "Not everything is heartache."
"Tell me that your pulse will race if I touch you now," she said.
"That is not an adequate way to measure heartache, Miss Adler."
"No, an adequate way would be if you could perform, should we try to fuck right now."
"Leave," he told her in no uncertain words.
"You think you have this under your thumb, don't you?" said Irene. "That you will forget her, that you will eventually not obsess over the way her accent would heighten when she was nervous. That you won't be reminded of the way she smiles or speaks or any of that other rubbish. You won't, Mr. Holmes. Not for lack of motivation or trying, or even underestimation of how much better it would be if she was with you. You will fail because swallow your problem whole and ignore it, schooling your mind in a way that makes the outburst more probable than the eventual cure."
"It would not be better if Molly Hooper was with me," said Sherlock. "We are both better off that way."
Irene laughed. "You may be taking endless cases, Mr. Holmes. You may be solving all of them. But in some ways, you need her. For instance, you did not even notice that I was wearing blue today."
And with that, she turned to leave.
[Scribbles from Molly Hooper's Notebooks, 1895]
Items needed for London:
- Bed sheets, pillows, pillow covers and other linens.
- Towels and other items for the toilet.
- Some new working dresses. New curtains.
- Get decent food first, Molly.
- Stop writing in my notebooks, Lizzie.
It had been a difficult summer. It had been a difficult summer of trying, paradoxically, to commit to memory Sherlock and forget him altogether. Meena had said nothing to her, chattering about Rajesh, about her job and how nice it was to have Molly back. All of this was interspersed with a lot of swearing and a lot of mocking Molly for being Molly.
"Margaret 'Ooper. Margaret. Why, Miss Margaret 'Ooper, would you like to accompany me to the ball and wear the best silks of China?"
"I knew I shouldn't have discussed trade routes with you," said Molly more to herself.
"Molly, what're you expecting tomorrow?"
"Murder," Molly smiled. "Hopefully."
"You know, if you smile like that when you say 'murder' then everything is going to go to dust. I'll see you on the asylum part of the 'ospital."
Molly childishly stuck her tongue out at Meena.
"That's very ladylike, Margaret," snickered Meena.
"Well, murder isn't ladylike either," Molly said.
"Breaking all the rules?" asked Meena.
"All the rules."
"Molly?" asked Meena, when they had done a good job with most of the apartment.
"Yes?" asked Molly, her head hurting.
"What happens when 'ee comes in?"
"I don't know," Molly sighed. "I'll burst into tears, knowing myself."
"You must not!" declared Meena. "Find your dignity, you idiot girl. You are Molly 'Ooper. You're a fucking female doctor."
"Well, what am I supposed to do?" snapped Molly. "I've missed you, Sherlock. I thought about you enough for my sister to think I was going clinically insane. I thought of you when I saw blood, birds and ash. And bees."
Meena rolled her eyes. "No. You will be what you are best at. You are going to be Molly 'Ooper."
"That's original, Meena," said Molly.
"Listen to me."
"What?" asked Molly angrily. "Be cruel? Be angry? Show him what he missed?"
"What bad magazine romance are you reading now?" demanded Meena. "You will do none of those things. You will be polite. Professional. You will show 'im that you don't mind talking about your previous relationship with 'im."
"Uncaring?" asked Molly.
"Not... exactly," said Meena delicately. "You 'ave to strike balance, Molly. You 'ave to make him believe that you are not thinking about 'im anymore. At the same time, show 'im that you have assimilated your emotional conflict where 'ee is concerned so well that it does not bother you that much now. You 'ave to be how you are with me, or with Doctor Watson."
"But I care about you and Doctor Watson," said Molly earnestly.
"Ex-actly," said Meena, jumping to her feet. "You 'ave to be same Molly 'Ooper. Wears her heart on her sleeve. But while being professional. You 'ave to show 'im that you can separate your emotions from work, and you can do it better than 'im."
Molly tilted her head. "That is so complicated that I have forgotten what we were talking about."
"Professional, but caring. Kind, but cruel. The balance, Molly 'Ooper. The balance."
The woman had been dressed to the murder before it. There was a very serial killer aura to the case that Sherlock was finding extremely tempting. He was excited – his heart was racing. Watson was trying to keep up with him. He felt like himself for the first time in a long time.
"Right, Watson. I need you to track down other all her other female friends. Every single one of them. Find out where they are, who they are with and what level of protection they have."
"And you?" asked Watson as he put on his coat.
"I'm heading to the morgue. We have to make sure Anderson doesn't damage the body too much."
Sherlock called for a cab, and began to head down to the hospital almost immediately. Watson could be seen reaching out to go to the police station, or the victim's home for all her contacts. Sherlock did hope that Watson's incompetence didn't get the better of him. He was saving Mary for a little undercover work that will inevitably be needed.
He reached the morgue, still in a hurry. As soon as he entered, he examined the body.
"Oh. It's you," said Anderson.
"Good to see you, Holmes," said Lestrade. "That's her," he added, nodding to the body.
"Yes, thank you Lestrade," said Sherlock sarcastically.
Lestrade just raised his eyebrows. Someone came in to give the Detective a message, and Sherlock focussed on how well the body had been dissected.
"Right, Holmes, I'll be back in a minute."
"This isn't done by you," said Sherlock to Anderson.
"Well guessed," said Anderson. It was at this moment that the universe decided to throw a cliché at him all over again.
When Molly Hooper walked into the room, Sherlock was certain that he knew what the unwritten monologue of Mr. Darcy's head was like when he met Elizabeth Bennet in his home.
"Oh, hello," said Molly looking at him and smiling gently. Sherlock wanted to gnash his teeth, but he was a little too shocked.
"Doctor Anderson told me you were coming in, Mr. Holmes," she said politely. "It's been a while, hasn't it?"
Sherlock paused. She sounded so normal. "He failed to – mention it to me," said Sherlock, clearing his throat for lack of better things to say.
"I presume that he expected you to be aware of my job here, since Doctor Watson recommended me and our personal association as well," said Molly, staring at her notes.
Anderson knew? He knew? Had Molly told him?
"Personal association?" he asked, his voice sharper than he needed it to be.
"Well," she laughed nervously. "We have worked together for two years now, Mr. Holmes."
"Right," he said. "Of course."
"Have you both not been talking?" asked Anderson. He looked surprised.
"One does not befriend their maids, Doctor Anderson," she said with a grin. Sherlock's eyes swivelled to look at her. He didn't see any bitterness – only amusement. She smiled at him again, and he got the queasy sensation that she was sharing a joke with them.
"Not you two," countered Anderson. "You would finish each other's sentences."
"I spent the summer with my sister, Doctor," said Molly, still smiling. "Did you expect Mr. Holmes to write to me?"
"No," grudged Anderson. Sherlock had to compliment Molly on her quick thinking, when he remembered that they weren't on speaking terms. Weren't they on speaking terms? He couldn't tell – her astounding normalcy had completely derailed him. He couldn't understand her; he didn't know what on earth was going through her head anymore.
"Miss Hooper – " began Sherlock, eager to return to the world of solid fact and no conflicting emotions which involved whether or not Molly Hooper was willing to talk to him or not.
"Doctor," she said.
"What?"
"Doctor Hooper," she corrected. "No longer 'Miss.'"
He could not believe she corrected him.
He could not believe how erotic 'Doctor Hooper' sounded. It was at this point that his body experienced yet another betrayal by his brain.
He was aroused by her lab attire. God help him.
He felt like shooting the wall again.
The case was solvable, and he had already deduced what he could. He was now considering two things: how to find the killer faster, and whether Molly Hooper was happy to see him.
A few months ago, he would have said that she didn't want to see his face again. However, today – he wasn't so sure. She seemed so calm and collected, so normal. As if nothing he had done had affected her more than she had needed it to affect her. It was very disconcerting.
It made him feel like – an experiment. With interesting side effects, of course. But just that – an experiment.
Molly was breathing in and out repeatedly.
"There, there," said Meena. "You showed 'im."
"Did I?" panicked Molly.
"Did you make sense?"
"I think so. Doctor Anderson looked at him funny, not me."
"There you go," said Meena.
"My heart was going at twice the speed, Meena."
"I should say you knew, being a student of medicine and all that." said Meena with a sly grin.
Molly glared at her.
"What did you say to 'im? 'Doctor' 'Ooper? Doctor. My Molly, already quite grown up."
"It was an accident," she said.
"Or a little bit of well deserved viciousness from you," said Meena. "Speakin' of medicine. I'm pregnant."
Molly paused. She stared at Meena. "Nice of you to tell me."
"I did. Right now. Did you not hear me?"
"You could have told me earlier!" declared Molly. "And maybe with a little bit of ceremony!"
Meena guffawed. "You really do have fancy ideas, Miss Molly 'Ooper. We don't go around with fancy letters and fancy dinner parties to announce pregnancies."
"Still..." Molly trailed off. "You're ridiculous, Meena."
"Drink your tea, Doctor Molly 'Ooper," smirked Meena.
"Another one of them?" asked Sherlock.
"Yes, sir," said Molly. "Miss Wentworth was clearly dying. Consumption."
"He's targeting women who are dying of terminal diseases alone, dressing them up in motley collection of clothes, and then shooting them through the head. Man of excellent moral standing," muttered Sherlock.
Molly licked her lips. She felt parched. Her throat tended to dry while her heart raced when she saw him – even now.
"By all means, Miss Hooper. Drink water," he rolled his eyes.
Molly felt a stab of anger, but she ignored it. She didn't bother correcting him with the Miss and Doctor.
Molly was examining the body closely. She had noticed that the woman had gripped, very tightly, a ring in her hand. It did not have any distinctive marks on it. A simple gold band would not mean much, but Molly was certain that this time the killer had left something more recognisable on the body.
"Miss Hooper?" asked Sherlock.
"Yes?" she asked.
"Could you please stop repeatedly looking at the body with the hope of finding something new?" he asked. Molly shut her eyes and begged patience from God almighty.
"What would you have me do, Mr. Holmes?" she gritted out.
"Tea, please. If you do intend to do something useful. Milk, two sugars."
Molly put her scalpel down, glaring at him. "By all means. Perhaps you can dissect the body and find what disease she had."
He was being cruel to her, as part of his new strategy. She hated it, mainly because using her as a glorified errand boy or secretary was something most of her colleagues were doing already. Doctor Anderson, surprisingly, was one of the few people who hadn't. He did have a lot more scepticism for whatever she found than the male colleagues, but he didn't ask her for 'milk, two sugars.'
Then again, Sherlock treated John that way. She was perhaps not used to it, because she was his house maid before, expected to run the errands he threw at her.
Even so. He ignored her with perseverance that Meena would be proud of. Molly didn't know what to make of it. She wanted to shake him out of his cold cruelty, to see the kinder man who was affectionate in his own bizarre way.
But she didn't know what she would do after that. She could not fool herself into believing her life would be normal. But she knew, in one corner of her brain, that Sherlock would never want that.
"Holmes, what do you think?" asked Watson.
"I have already told you. Lord Braxton has done this."
"We need to have more evidence!" Lestrade said vehemently. "The man is vile, he is disgusting. I believe you more than you believe yourself –"
"I doubt it," scoffed Sherlock.
"But we need something more than his past history, and the fact that he is a Doctor at the hospital where all these women went. We need more."
"You soon will have it," said Anderson. "Hooper's made up some reports."
Watson raised his eyebrows at Anderson. "What?" asked Anderson defensively.
"You called her 'Hooper'," noted Watson.
"And?" asked Anderson.
"You tend to call her 'Miss Hooper' or 'Molly Hooper'. You have never addressed her without first addressing her female title," said Watson delicately.
"Well," coughed Anderson. "She's a good worker."
Watson was smiling to himself. That's when Sherlock noticed Anderson clearly.
"You like her," he said suddenly.
"What? No," said Anderson.
"You do," said Sherlock. "You think she is admirable, handsome. You like her – you want to court her."
"What's wrong with that?" asked Anderson angrily. "She won't always be at your beck and call! She won't always stand for your needless requests – she won't always be giving you spare body parts – yes, don't think I didn't notice that."
Sherlock felt a surge of red-hot anger. "She will never agree – for one, she wants to continue working after marriage. She cannot accept a man who is her superior, it would bring her in bad standing with her co-workers. You will never understand her drive to work, Anderson – and you are not half as intelligent as her."
"And I suppose she will accept you?" asked Anderson viciously. "You won't be able to give her anything she desired, much less any sense of normalcy in her life. I could make her happy. I could offer her what she would like. She doesn't need to give up her profession immediately."
Sherlock glared at Anderson. Watson pushed Sherlock away, or Sherlock may have committed murder.
On the top of the terrace, she was invisible. Molly felt the wind flutter across by – the clothes hanging blew up like ghosts, ready to haunt her. They deflated again, to reveal their shapes and cuts and other definitions. The world could blur in and out of existence over here, and she may never notice.
The cold November wind was ice on her lips, but she ignored it. It felt perfect – to be invisible, nonexistent. She was not big enough in this world to merit an audience all the time, and at least when she was invisible she could hear herself.
Lestrade, Sherlock and Watson reached Baker Street intending to collapse on the couches. Mrs. Hudson noticed their exhaustion and fetched the whisky and decanter immediately. "Caught the killer, Mr. Holmes?" she asked cheerfully.
"Why, yes, Mrs. Hudson," said Sherlock, exhilarated.
"No need to look so excited, Holmes," said Watson.
"You have to allow me some room for happiness, now, Watson," said Sherlock. "If not when the murder happens then when the killer is caught?"
Watson rolled his eyes. "You're taking him to Scotland Yard for questioning?" he addressed Lestrade.
"He's heading to Saint Bartholomew's first, actually," said Lestrade. "We need to give him the medical attention he needs."
"You could do that at the station," said Sherlock.
"Holmes, you broke his hand. He needs medical attention."
Sherlock rolled his eyes dismissively. He was considering what a difficult fight the man had put up, and how satisfying it had been to find the evidence that had forced him to consider escape.
Sherlock looked outside, with the intention of seeing Lestrade take a cab back to Scotland Yard to interrogate Lord Braxton.
"Holmes?" asked Watson.
"Yes?" he said, as Lestrade watched a cab stop in front of Baker Street.
"Is everything alright? You've been a little more... manic than normal."
Anderson jumped out of the cab. He looked dishevelled.
"I'd love to dissect my emotions with you, Watson, but I am afraid that Anderson is here with some bad news."
Sherlock quickly picked up his coat, running downstairs. He heard Watson sigh and follow him – where Lestrade was just entering again. "Holmes –" he started.
"What?" asked Sherlock.
"He got away at the hospital," said Anderson.
"Expected. Desperation. Did you recapture him?" asked Sherlock.
"Yes. But he's in a bad shape."
"What happened?" asked Watson.
"He attacked some of the doctors in an effort to leave the hospital – Hooper and Davies were in the way."
"Hooper?" asked Sherlock sharply.
"Yes," continued Anderson hurriedly. "Cut her arm, while Davies suppressed him. Hooper herself managed to hit him in the head hard enough to knock him out."
Sherlock could hear his ears thumping.
"Davies and Hooper are alright – bit shaken up, obviously. At least Hooper's popularity has increased a little."
"What?" asked Sherlock, his breath caught in his throat.
Anderson rolled his eyes. "You don't know much, do you, Holmes? She wasn't very popular due to her femininity, if you understand what I am saying. She still is highly unpopular, but now she has a little more respect."
"Watson, we're going to Saint Bartholomew's," Sherlock ordered, as he left the house.
"That's perfectly normal, isn't it?" asked Watson with a sigh. "We often rush off to criminals going off on minor rampages for no particular reason. Especially if no one is hurt."
Sherlock glared at him before they rushed off, with Anderson rolling his eyes.
"What's the matter with him, you reckon?" asked Lestrade.
"One of the advantages of admiring a woman is that you know who else does as well. He admires a woman," said Anderson significantly.
"Holmes? You're joking," scoffed Lestrade.
"Not even a little bit," said Anderson. "Molly's fond of him as well."
"And how'd you reckon that?" asked Lestrade, despite himself.
Anderson raised his eyes at Lestrade. "Oh, don't cite your 'intuition'," said Lestrade. Anderson just shrugged.
John noted that Molly looked bruised but not very seriously in danger. She was clearly worn out, and a bit battered, but she was simply continuing her work carelessly. Men around her were giving not-so-savoury looks to her.
"Afternoon, Molly," said John pleasantly.
"Oh, Doctor Watson!" she said, and smiled. "Hello. What brings you here?"
"Your friend has an odd sense of timing," said John as Holmes glared at Molly.
"What?" she asked him, her 'T' cutting sharply as she pinched the bridge of her nose. "Another badly done dissection? Do you want more thumbs, because there's a jar on my table."
"What made you think to take on Lord Braxton? He's twice your size!" said Holmes vehemently.
"I'm sorry?" said Molly, opening her eyes. "For one thing, I didn't exactly have a choice in the matter, Mr. Holmes. For another thing, I survived, didn't I?"
"At the risk of being severely injured!" he said, and for once, John felt like he could hear genuine fear in his voice.
She narrowed her eyes at him, and John prayed she had a good defence ready.
"Why do you care?" she asked darkly. She returned to her body. "Go away, Mr. Holmes."
Holmes looked so thunderstruck John almost felt sorry for him. He didn't in reality, for Molly had much more of a point that Holmes was willing to concede to.
He was about to open his mouth, when Molly cut through: "Mr. Holmes, this man has a severe brain injury, and it is a very long procedure to remove the skull cap – apparently, thanks to your brother, I have to work on all the cases you find interesting – and Inspector Lestrade asked me to do this one. I have a long and tiring day ahead of me and I have already been attacked once. My co-workers are split in binaries over why a woman was allowed to work in the hospital since a ready target for murderers on the rampage was available – and over how I did manage to bash the man up anyway. It's very difficult being in their heads right now, because if they agree that I was a soft target, they disregard the bashing, and if they agree on the bashing, they disregard my gender – which is impossible for men to comprehend. I would love to take the rest of the day off as Doctor Stamford offered, but then I would be considered incompetent for not being able to work after the bashing – never mind the fact that Doctor Wilkes did get to leave. Unfortunately for me, I – not you – will be facing the brunt of this and I am in no mood to handle your arbitrary behavioural swings as well."
John suppressed laughter at Holmes' expression.
"Molly!" said Holmes.
"Mr. Holmes, please call me Doctor Hooper or Hooper in front of my colleagues," she sighed, examining the body again. "And anyway, who are you to worry about my health?"
John would have loved to stay and allow Molly to tear Holmes down a little more, but she was beginning to look a little dangerous with the scalpel. He didn't doubt her harmlessness, but one really shouldn't cross a woman who looked like she had nothing to lose but her sanity. He dragged Holmes away from her.
People like Molly Hooper had to do so much to keep their sanity anyway; it really would be a shame is Holmes lost his lady-love thanks to stupidity on his part and mental instability on hers.
"Why didn't you allow me to speak to her?" asked Holmes angrily.
"Did you see her, Holmes?" asked John. "She would have you on her slab next."
"Molly? Never," scoffed Holmes.
"Have a little regard for the girl, Sherlock. She won't always stay with you," said Mary cheerfully.
"No," he brooded. "Perhaps she won't. Most people don't."
"That's ungrateful of you," said John, offended. "I have stayed for a while now, haven't I?"
"So have I!" said Mary indignantly.
"You both don't count," dismissed Holmes.
"Why not? I have to deal with your behavioural swings just as much, your stupidity, not to mention your arbitrary nature."
"And I have to manage your brooding nature, your idiotic rumination, and your persistent need to be beaten at Chess by me."
"Why do you, then?" asked Holmes. He seemed genuinely baffled.
"You really are an idiot, Holmes," sighed John.
"What would you have us say? That we love you?" asked Mary with a smile.
"Do you?" asked Holmes, immediately.
"Would it matter if we did?" asked John, rolling her eyes.
"It would give me some insight into Molly's behaviour," said Holmes.
Mary's lips twitched. "Drink your tea, Sherlock," she said.
"Why do you have me as your friend?" asked Holmes, determined for an answer. "I'm unreasonable, apathetic to religion and children – I will be a terrible uncle for your unborn child – congratulations, by the way. I am cruel, unnecessarily unkind, and very difficult to live with. What is it you like? Watson stays for the thrill. Mary, I do not understand what you see in me."
"What?" asked John. Mary? Children? What –
"I'm pregnant?" asked Mary.
"Lord alone knows," said John.
"What, you didn't know?" asked Holmes. "She's definitely pregnant."
"My God, Holmes, why do we put up with you?" asked John, feeling disgruntled.
"Exactly!" said Holmes triumphantly.
Mary was grinning again. "It's part of your charm, dear," she said finally. "I suppose Molly must really love you – I can barely tolerate you for a evening tea, while she actually lived with you."
"Yes," said Holmes, looking away. He seemed thoughtful.
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