Warning for violence and death.
Chapter 10: The Night Shift
Exactly four days after Sherlock said good-bye to Molly with a kiss that left her toes curling and a murmured promise that he would get back safely, he and John burst into the morgue at Barts, followed by a team of very official-looking soldiers wheeling a body on a stretcher. She didn't know how she felt about the surge of affection that went through her at the sight of Sherlock showing up with a dead body in her morgue, but she could take a closer look at that association later. For the moment, she was just happy to see he and John both alive and apparently quite excited about what they were presenting her.
"Molly, we are going to need a full autopsy on this individual; chances are he is carrying the virus so do take the proper precautions," Sherlock told her, beginning to gather up her needed equipment and handing it to her.
"Wh-when did you two – "
"About thirty minutes ago," Sherlock said, guiding her towards the washing station.
"Have you seen Mary?" Molly asked John, looking over her shoulder.
"No," John replied, exasperated, gesturing to Sherlock.
"She's upstairs," she told him with a smile, watching him quickly leave the room.
"Now," Sherlock said, continuing on. "The important thing to focus on is, obviously, the virus. But any additional information you can tell us, any foreign DNA, identification, true cause of death, would be marvelous."
Before she could protest, he took hold of her arms and bent down, catching her in a long, deep kiss. Her mind went momentarily blank.
"I told you I would make it back safely," he murmured smugly against her mouth, as though he'd just won a bet.
And with that, he was gone. Swept out the doors of the morgue like a superhero. Managing to close her gob, Molly gulped as she looked at the soldiers. She pointed towards the nearest metal table.
"There," she practically squeaked, clearing her throat. "Um, just, put it right there. Thanks."
Several hours later, after running every test she could possibly think of and with the help of Doctor Stapleton, Molly and the rest of the Baker Street crew were standing in the lab, looking at the DNA analysis results on the large computer monitor. Three sets of radiant bands lit up the screen. One was from the deceased man's saliva, another from his brain, and the third was from his spinal cord. The first two showed the results she had come to expect. The third was, frustratingly, blank. As always. Every time. She worried her bottom lip as she frowned at the screen, waiting for the moment when she would get a sudden bolt of lightning while staring at the gel results. Normally, hoping for a moment of inspiration didn't work.
But that day was an exception.
"Oh," Molly exhaled, looking at the radiant bands, her brown eyes lighting up. "Oh! Oh my, what if we've been going about this all wrong?"
"What do you mean?" Mary asked.
Everyone in the room watched the pathologist as she darted back and forth between the gel results and two computers, clicking away furiously. Suddenly, the screen showed the results from the same strand of viral DNA from previously known Lyssavirus, their bands showing incredibly similar results to the new virus.
"Look," Molly told them, pointing to the pictures. "Positive results from the same areas. All of them. So why aren't we getting positive results from the spinal cord with the mutation?"
"Speculation was that it had to do with complete relocation of the virus from the spine to the brain," Stapleton said, her face lighting up as she began to catch on to what Molly was suggesting. "There was no sign of the virus in the spinal column, was there?"
Molly shook her head.
"No. But what if," Molly said excitedly, her ponytail swinging dramatically as she spun to look at the group, her eyes finally settling on Sherlock. "What if we've been focusing on the wrong end of this? We've been trying to develop a vaccine and a cure in the same way they did over a hundred years ago, by pulling the virulent form from deceased victims... from their brain tissue, because that's where we were finding it. That's how it's worked before, so why not? But what if that's not what's infecting the victims?"
The room was silent as every single person took in what she said and stared at the monitor.
"It's changing," Sherlock said, his voice low.
"It's changing," Molly agreed soberly. "One form infects; it travels up the spinal column to the brain stem and mutates within the body drastically enough to be useless as a vaccine once a person has died. It sheds its old coating and develops a brand new one. Once it's reached the brain stem, there's nothing the immune system can do to stop it. Then it invades the brain, shutting down the cortical and cerebral cortex and causing fever and hydrophobia long enough to 'kill' its host before turning them into a walking incubator for replication."
John looked back at the test results and his face became tense. "So what you're saying is that, in order to create a proper vaccine – "
"We have to take viral samples from a live specimen," Molly finished for him, feeling far less enthusiastic about that information than anything else she had said. "Very newly infected. Before it can make its way to the brain stem. Before it can start to mutate. We need to start from scratch."
"It would be imperative if what you've said is correct," Sherlock agreed.
"I'll let the staff know," Stapleton said hurriedly, excusing herself from the group and rushing from the room. Molly was incredibly grateful that she was around. It had be a huge help having another person working on the virus that had a step up on the problems they were facing. Thank God Mycroft had allowed her to join their team rather than imprisoning her for not warning anyone of what was about to come. The fact that no one would have taken her seriously enough to prevent the plague had factored into her reprieve, although her familiarity with the lyssavirus research being performed in China had certainly helped.
"Molly, you are truly a genius," Sherlock praised her, taking two quick steps, enveloping her head with his hands, and kissing her solidly on the lips before turning and sweeping out of the room.
Molly could feel the blush from the top of her head to the tips of her toes. He was really going to have to stop doing that at work.
oOo
If they had known the solution that would present itself only a few days later, the group wouldn't have been as enthusiastic for the next step of trying to find a cure. An issue had gone out to all officials and law enforcement that any new cases were to be reported immediately. There was no mandate (England still had its standards, after all), but volunteers would be accepted. The only person who actually decided to follow through got to them too late - she was already into the later stages of the disease by the time they could gather a sample. Molly pulled the white sheet over her face and fought back tears at the sacrifice.
She was truly beginning to hate her job.
But nothing could have prepared her for the moment when Mike Stamford walked into the lab, holding a rag against his bicep and staring at her and Sherlock with a look of mild shock on his face.
Sherlock must have known immediately, but it took her until Mike finished explaining what had happened before she understood what was about to occur.
"One of the induced coma patients," he said slowly. "Must've had the dosage wrong… he woke up during rounds…"
She didn't trust herself to perform the spinal tap. John and Mary were brought in for that.
"What if it's not enough?" Mike asked when the procedure was over. John frowned at him. "You know what I mean. What if you need… more? This is the only chance, before it's too late…"
John and Mary went quietly home that night. Sherlock sat resolutely at his microscope. Molly shut herself in the locker room and collapsed on the floor and sobbed. It didn't take long before Sherlock came in and found her, sitting down next to her and pulling her into his arms.
"There was nothing else we could have done," he soothed, running his hand over her back.
"I know," she said, hiccuping a little and wiping the wet from her face before burying herself in his shoulder.
"He did an incredibly brave thing. It's going to change the game."
"I know," she repeated. "But it still hurts."
"I know," he murmured, dropping a kiss onto the top of her head.
oOo
The memorial service was held in St. Barts chapel, a simple affair attended by far more people than the small space could accommodate. Mike had been well-liked as well as respected amongst the hospital staff, and even as she mourned his loss Molly was comforted by the sight of so many familiar faces around her. Not that she knew everyone there, but she knew quite a few of them and spoke to most of those when the service ended. The ones who knew about her research asked how it was progressing; she truthfully told them that Mike had made a significant contribution by volunteering himself for study after being bitten, and that because of his brave sacrifice, there was a chance they might someday find a cure.
Mycroft probably wouldn't approve of what he'd no doubt term her 'indiscretion', but Molly didn't care. People needed hope, and Mike's life and death both deserved to be honored.
Sherlock and John had missed the service, too busy following up a new lead at the opposite end of London. A member of Sherlock's Homeless Network had reported some kind of uptick in the number of people slipping in and out of the city, probably smugglers evading the blockades and curfews and travel restrictions, but possibly something more important. Mike, Molly knew, would have understood and approved their reasons for not being there.
God, when would it stop hurting to think about him? She and Sherlock had made furious love the night John had given the older man the fatal overdose of pentobarbital that was standard in such situations these days, locking themselves in his flat to work out their mutual grief and anger at losing such a good friend – which Mike had been, to both of them. To all of them.
The next morning she'd slipped away before Sherlock awoke, taking the Tube to St. Barts and steeling herself for the morning's grim ordeal: Mike's autopsy. After that she'd buried herself in research, she and Jacqui Stapleton and the other members of their small team working in near silence to test the newly acquired (and dearly paid for) data against Molly's theory.
While others headed for the canteen where a moderate spread had been prepared for the mourners, Molly made her excuses and headed for the path lab. They were awaiting results of several tests, and she needed something to distract her before she could return home. Mary nodded when she took her aside, giving her a quick hug and kiss on the cheek and promising to let Sherlock know where she was if he got home before her.
"Doctor Hooper?"
She turned at the sound of an unfamiliar voice calling her name, managing a polite smile when all she wanted to do was tell whoever it was to sod off. It was a fellow doctor, one who'd been at Mike's service but to whom she hadn't spoken or been introduced. "Doctor Hooper, forgive the intrusion. I'm a colleague of Mike's, or rather, I was. It was terrible, what happened to him. A real tragedy."
He was saying all the right things, but somehow Molly didn't think the sorrow in his voice quite reached his eyes. Maybe it was all her years of Sherlock-watching, learning to become an expert at when a very gifted actor was faking it, but something about the man raised the hackles at the back of her neck. She took in the details of his appearance, studying them for some clue to her sudden unease. He was tall, about as tall as Sherlock, with a darker complexion as if he'd been in more tropical climes than England in the recent past. His hair was dark brown and worn just long enough to brush the tops of his ears, and his eyes were almost the same shade, magnified by the thick lenses of the round wire-rimmed spectacles he wore. He had a lean build and a faintly military bearing that reminded her a bit of John. Nothing alarming in and of itself, and yet...
Seemingly oblivious to her sudden tension, he gave her an ingratiating smile. "Mike told me he thought you were close to a breakthrough, that you might possibly have found a cure, is that correct?"
Molly backed up a step as the man stretched out his hand to shake hers. "I'm sorry, what was your name?" She looked for his ID badge, but it was twisted so that all she could see was the back.
"Ah, yes, sorry, how rude of me!" He chuckled, and there was definitely something off now, something that had Molly trying to unobtrusively fumble her mobile from her lab coat pocket. "My name is…"
"Doctor Boehm? Oh my God!"
Both Molly and the stranger turned to face the speaker. Jacqui Stapleton was standing not ten feet away, just lowering the iPad she must have been studying before speaking. Her eyes were wide and very dark in her suddenly pale face. Molly felt her own color fleeing as she blanched at the realization that the man Jacqui had been working for in China was here. The man Sherlock and John had gone looking for.
The man who might very well be responsible for unleashing this mutated form of rabies on the world.
Everything happened so quickly after that that Molly could only remember it in flashes: her grabbing for her mobile and backing away from Boehm, slamming her hip into the door handle; Jacqui crying out and turning to run as Boehm pulled a gun from beneath his lab coat while Molly tried to grab it from him; Boehm easily fending her off, smashing her hand into the door and causing her to cry out as her mobile dropped to the floor; the weapon firing; Jacqui collapsing to the floor in an awkward sprawl, a red stain blooming in the middle of her back.
Boehm whirled to face Molly again, a snarl of rage on his face as he pointed the gun at her. "Well, Doctor Hooper, this isn't exactly how I'd planned things, but there's nothing to be done for it now." He wiggled the gun a bit, indicating that she should move away from the door.
She stumbled forward obediently, cradling her injured hand to her chest and trying not to shake. As she did so, Boehm pulled a neatly folded sheet of paper out of his pocket and dropped it on the floor. He moved the gun again and Molly took two more steps forward, shaking with a combination of rage and fear as her heart pounded in her chest.
As soon as her back was to him Boehm grabbed her, hauling her close to his body and trapping both arms to her chest. The press of the still-smoking gun barrel against her temple stopped her struggles to free herself. "Let's go, Doctor Hooper." He forced her along the empty corridor, which only a few short hours earlier had been teeming with staff. Not so now; it was completely deserted, the other researchers still at the memorial service or gone home for the day, overnight maintenance crew not yet on duty.
They left the hospital via the maintenance lift, taking it all the way down to the basement and out to the delivery dock. Two men were waiting with a lorry, both dropping their cigarettes and leaving them to fizzle out on the pavement as Boehm and Molly appeared. They manhandled her into the vehicle, tying her hands behind her back with plastic zip-ties, but not gagging her. As soon as she saw the needle one of them produced, she understood why. She struggled futilely, was quickly injected, and passed into unconsciousness.
