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Molly hadn't expected the pub meet-up to turn into a small gathering of work colleagues. She felt slightly guilty when she realized how long it had been since she'd spent any time outside of Bart's with Meena and Jacqueline, and she'd never had the opportunity to spend time with Daphne since she'd joined the staff. As it turned out, they were all interested in her little venture into crime solving – not just in Keswick, but her small day helping Sherlock when he'd first returned as well. She had been unaware of the staff fascination with their connection.
"How many did you send to jail exactly?" Jacqueline asked, brushing the tight strands of dark curls out of her face as she took another drink of her wine.
"Three," Molly answered. "But it wasn't me, really, to be honest. Just along to help."
"Not likely," Jacqueline said. "You've got more skill with evidence than anyone in Bart's."
"He wouldn't be nearly as famous as he is without you," Meena chimed in. "Refuses to work with anyone else – not that anyone else would tolerate him. He likes you."
"Well he's her boyfriend, yeah?" Daphne added, looking to the others as though it were common knowledge.
Molly felt her face warm and she looked down into her wine glass as Meena and Jacqueline turned to stare at her with wide eyes. They had been aware of Molly's feelings for Sherlock for years. They had also been aware that her attempts to get over him when he seemed to not return her affections had always gone wrong somehow. It must have been an interesting drama to watch, with Sherlock returning to her side again and again, in need of her help, and Molly going above and beyond because she worshipped his genius, all while quietly pining for him in various levels of want.
"Molly Hooper," Meena exclaimed. "What have you been keeping from us?"
Molly hesitated.
"It's…sort of new," she tried to explain. "But yeah…"
"Fucking hell!" Meena grinned.
"Are you seriously telling me that you and that man are actually an item?" Jacqueline said with disbelief.
Daphne looked at Molly sheepishly.
"Sorry, I thought they knew," she offered as an apology.
"S'okay," Molly said. "It'll probably make it to the gossip mags at some point anyway. It always does, with him."
"I need another drink," Meena declared, raising her arm to flag down a waiter. "Molly, another for you? You're dating the consulting detective now, you might need it."
Looking down into her glass again, seeing the wine almost gone, Molly paused.
"No, thank you," she said. "One's fine."
"Did you see they have new fume hoods in the third floor lab?" Meena said indignantly after ordering her drink. "And after they got new scopes last year, too. Still working with old scratched lenses in path and they get shiny new toys."
Molly breathed a little easier at the change of subject. It wasn't that she wished to avoid talking about Sherlock, but when faced with trying to explain the unorthodox nature of their relationship, she felt cautious. It wasn't anything that would be seen in a romantic film or considered normal by most people. She had no grand hopes of a passionate proposal of marriage or, at the moment, even keeping a plan to spend an evening together. Would it ever be possible to explain to others that she was actually fine with that because Sherlock Holmes showed his loyalties in other ways? That maybe she wanted it that way after years of chasing the alternative and being disappointed?
"They keep my instruments sharp and new," Molly said, joining the conversation underway. "I'm happy for that. Nothing like cutting into a dead body with a dull scalpel."
A passing patron caught her words and turned to look at the group with a horrified expression before moving on quickly. Molly ducked her head and smirked as the others started laughing.
"Well," Jacqueline said, wiping away tears of laughter from the corners of her eyes. "At least the hospital had the decency to extend the invitations to general staff for the gala this year. That's something."
"What?" Molly asked, draining the last of her wine with a smile.
"Didn't you get the invitation?" Daphne said. "The higher ups decided to grace us underlings with the opportunity to brush elbows."
"Came in the post a few days ago," Meena clarified and looked at Molly with a grin. "You'll have the most popular date there, I suspect."
"I must – must have missed the invitation while I was gone," Molly said, trying to wrap her head around the idea of attending such an event with Sherlock. She'd completely forgotten to collect her mail from the post office, having had it held while she traveled.
Sure enough, when she went the next morning, there was the formal invitation to the gala. It was short notice – less than a week away – and she suspected the board had realized they could afford to invite the lesser employees at the last minute. Her nose scrunched up as she stared at the card. She hated the way bureaucracy worked at times.
Her eyes drifted down to the dress code. Black tie.
Oh dear.
Sherlock strode swiftly down the pavement in Hampstead, eager to find the address Lestrade had gifted him with and be done with the ridiculous case. A teenaged girl who'd tired of her mother making foolish predictions and readings about her friends when they'd come to the family flat, but unable to turn her back on the only family she'd ever known, the person who'd put a roof over her head and food on her plate. There was plenty of guilt there and plenty of sentiment keeping her from cutting ties completely. Old enough to claim independence, but young enough for a mother to want to claim control.
He heard John's rapid footsteps alongside him, stepping quicker in order to keep up with him. He hated to disappoint him in his enthusiasm for the case, but, as he saw it, there was nothing to be found.
Seeing the building number they sought, Sherlock hopped up the steps quickly and rang the bell. After a few moments, the intercom crackled to life.
"Yeah?" a female voice answered.
"Sherlock Holmes, with Scotland Yard, may we have a moment of your time?" he said, seeing no point in trying to trick his way into talking to anyone.
"What'sit about?" the girl asked.
"Lillian Fisher."
There was silence from the intercom. John moved in and pressed the button.
"Her mum's worried, we just need to ask a few questions," he said coaxingly.
The door unlatched a few seconds later and Sherlock quickly pushed it open, hurrying up the stairs to find the flat. On the second floor, there was a girl waiting inside the doorway of one of the flats, arms crossed over her stomach and weight shifted casually onto one leg. She wore form fitting pants with a floral pattern and a white blouse. Her brown hair was cut short and brushed out of her face.
"Lillian's not 'ere," she told them as they approached. "I'm Bridget, what can I help you with?"
"John Watson," John introduced himself and showed her his military ID. "We're just checking up, making sure she's okay."
"Her mother seems to be under the impression that she's in some sort of danger," Sherlock said. "Can you tell us where we can find her?"
"She's fine, but she left a week ago, said she was goin' to her boyfriend's place for a bit," Bridget said with a shrug. "Dunno where it is."
"Yes you do," Sherlock corrected. Bridget raised an eyebrow. "Young girls flat sharing in the city, you share this information. We have no intentions of telling her mother about her location, just to ensure that she's safe. Now, where is she?"
Bridget let out a little grumble and disappeared into the flat, returning a moment later with a notepad that had various telephone numbers and addresses written on it. She thrust it at Sherlock.
"Third one down," she said. "If her mum finds out, I'm dead, okay?"
"Won't say a word," John promised as he followed Sherlock down the hall.
There was something off about the address in Sherlock's mind, something that sent a feeling of uncertainty through him as they took a cab to the location. It was a part of London he admitted he was not as familiar with, but a nagging in his brain told him there was something wrong about a residence in the area.
As soon as they turned down the street, he understood why. There wasn't a single residential building in sight, only warehouses and mechanic shops. The cabbie pulled to a stop in front of a grey stone building with a garage door as its only entrance. A padlock was secured to the door and 'for rent' sign plastered to the front.
"This is your stop, mates," the cabbie said.
"This cannot be right," John said as he peered out the window at the building. "You sure this is the address?"
"Positive," Sherlock said, reaching into his coat pocket for money to pay the cabbie before climbing out of the vehicle.
The cab took off and Sherlock stared at the door for a moment before having a go at the padlock, knowing John would keep a lookout. After two tries, the lock sprung open and Sherlock quickly wrenched the door open to let them in. The garage was musty and poorly lit, with oil stains on the cement floor and old crates stacked along the walls. His eyes flicked around the room, trying to assess if they had been misled or if there was more to this than he had expected.
"What do make of it, John?" he asked as he walked around the space.
"Not much to it," John replied. "Could be used for storage…staging area for smuggling, maybe? Drugs?"
"Hm."
Sherlock dismissed the likelihood that that space was used for anything as innocuous as storage. Lillian Fisher did not seem like the type to get involved in drugs, necessarily. But smuggling…perhaps.
He stopped short on his turn about the space, his nostrils catching an odor that didn't belong. Sniffing carefully, he walked closer to a stack of crates, noticing a dark stain on the wood. Leaning close, the scent became clear.
"Liquor," he declared. "Vodka, spilled onto the crates."
"So…they came here to let loose, have parties?" John posited.
Sherlock's nose wrinkled and he tipped his head to the side, not ruling out the idea but not entirely happy with it either. The location was in enough of a residential desert that he could believe a group of young people would be able to throw parties on the right night and not be caught.
"But why would Lillian's flat mate think this was her boyfriend's place?" he wondered out loud. "And why would she never be invited, no, it doesn't make sense, that doesn't add up. There's fresh motor oil on the ground here…and here, and the door is well used, people have been moving in and out."
Having decided there was nothing more to see in the space, he led them quickly back out of the garage and onto the street, walking briskly to the next block to hail a cab. His mind started to process and save what he had seen as they rode back to Lillian Fisher's flat, latching onto the strangeness and inconsistencies. Those elements, more than anything else, were what pulled him in. He was either being lied to or there was something deeper going on. Either way, he wanted it resolved.
Bridget answered the intercom on the first buzz.
"Do you make a habit of lying to people?" Sherlock said accusatorily.
There was a moment of silence and then the door to the building unlatched. She was again waiting for them in the doorway of the flat.
"I wasn't lying," she told them as they advanced on her. "That's the place she goes to meet 'im."
"Who?" John asked.
"I've only met 'im once," she said. "His name is Kostya. I went with Lillian one time…it was a buncha idiots drinkin' in a garage and getting' high. They had a van they all started to pile into, but I didn't go with 'em. I went home. Whatever it was they were going to get up to, I wasn't interested."
"She's got her own room here?" John asked. Bridget nodded. "Mind if we take a look around?"
Bridget stepped to the side and gestured irritably towards the inside of the flat. She looked as though she had been expecting trouble to follow whatever it was Lillian was involved in, annoyed that she was the one to have to deal with the fallout. Sherlock walked into the tiny flat, quickly taking in the details of space. It was cramped, but not messy.
"It's the room on the left," Bridget told them.
Lillian Fisher was an exceptionally organized, fussy individual. The small room contained only a bed, a side table, and a small bookshelf. None of the surfaces were cluttered and every item was carefully placed. A lifetime of growing up with a woman who was absent minded and no doubt unconcerned with order had left its mark.
Sherlock began to inspect the room, pulling open the closet doors, peering at the books and knickknacks on the bookshelf. There were enough clothes and personal items left to convince him that Lillian had not up and left. In the drawer of the side table he found stationary, envelopes, and a notebook for tracking funds. He held the detailed tracker up for John to see.
"Column on the left, money coming in," he explained. "Dates, but no indication of the source. Column on the right, funds deducted. Same amount every week."
"She was making a pretty penny," John said. "And still living in this sardine can?"
"What are you up to," Sherlock muttered, staring at the entries.
"Drugs, smuggling, or prostitution," Mary told them as they all sat in the lounge of the Watson's home that evening. She was relaxed into the plush rocking chair across from the sofa, Joanna nestled against her chest and fast asleep.
"Her flatmate did say they were getting high when she went to the garage with them," John agreed from his spot on the sofa.
Sherlock paced in the empty space by the mantel, his expression one of uncertainty.
"It's not going through her flat if that's the case," he said. He knew what to look for when it came to hiding substances, using or not. "The place was clean."
"Smuggling then?" John asked.
"No word on any new movement in that profession from my sources, though I won't rule it out," Sherlock replied.
"Well that leaves the oldest profession," Mary said with a downturn of her lips. "It would explain the money movement."
"It would, but so would any number of other things. There's not enough there, I need to find out where she went, where she's disappeared to, the whole thing is too clean for it not to be complicated on the other end!" Sherlock exclaimed in frustration.
Mary shot him an incredulous look.
"Oi," she said, gesturing to Joanna. "Sleeping infant here."
Sherlock shook his head and grimaced.
"Sorry."
"Have you tried tracking her mobile?" Mary asked.
"Gave it a shot at Scotland Yard," John told her. "No luck."
"What about the letters?" she pushed on.
"What about them?" Sherlock said, glancing at her.
"Have you tried tracking them?" she inquired. Sherlock stopped his pacing and stared at her. Mary sighed. "Mr. Technology over here…you do know you can find out where a letter was mailed from. And if it wasn't mailed from her flat - "
"We can narrow down where she's been going," Sherlock said quickly.
He turned on his heel and strode out of the room towards the front door, Mary's call of, "You're welcome!" barely registering. He didn't bother to wait to see if John was following, having come to expect his friend to put his priorities at home during the evening hours. A cab was quickly flagged down and he was on his way to Hoxton, unconcerned with the hour of the evening as he bounded up to Susan Fisher's flat and rang the bell.
She answered cautiously, looking slightly worried to see him on her doorstep.
"I need all the letters," he announced.
"The letters?"
"Yes, your daughter's letters, with the envelopes, all of them, now please," he said, his impatient tone belying the polite words. "Especially the recent ones."
The sun had risen by the time Sherlock was done with every shred of evidence he could manage to pull from the letters at Baker Street, thoroughly exhausting the search capacity of the internet when it came to London postal codes stamped on the envelopes. After the painstaking process, he'd managed to determine that, until two months prior, all the letters had been mailed from Hampstead. Then, suddenly, they were mailed from a PO Box in Westminster. The damned post office had been completely unhelpful when he'd called to inquire about the situation. Apparently, he was not authorized to receive that sort of private information.
Staring at the pile of post sitting in front of him on his coffee table, he registered the approach of Mrs. Hudson before he heard her cheerful little call and a slight knock at the door.
"Tea for one this morning, Sherlock?" she asked as she hovered in the doorway. "I figured I should start asking, seeing as how Molly has finally started staying over."
"Yes, fine, good," he replied without enthusiasm.
"I'd no idea that's where you were off to all those nights," she said, beginning to ramble. "She's a nice one. Plenty of patience, which is good for your sake. After John, you need someone strong like that."
"Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock muttered. "Please kindly tell me you are not still under the impression that John and I were an item."
She raised her hands in a gesture of innocence and shrugged.
"I don't judge, dear."
"You also don't observe. Stop believing what you read in the gossip column and understand that John Watson has always been, and always will be, my friend. Molly is the one I happen to be sharing my bed with."
"Well count your blessing there," Mrs. Hudson advised as she turned to go back to her flat. "I can't imagine you'd attend the gala any other way."
"The what?"
"Hospital gala on Friday," she repeated, pausing on the landing. "John and Mary told me all about it when they popped by for a visit a few days ago. Sounds like a wonderful evening! Won't be a minute with your tea."
Sherlock watched her disappear down the stairs, humming as she went.
Molly hadn't mentioned a thing about a gala. Not that he was interested, he despised events of that sort. He despised events of most sorts. If John was invited, surely Molly was, too.
He didn't have time to stop for a gala when he had a case on.
Looking back to the pile of letters once more, knowing full well he was at a standstill with trying to find Lillian Fisher's whereabouts without calling in help from Scotland Yard or doing something highly illegal, he weighed his options. One text to Lestrade and he could have the information for the PO Box, if he worded it just right. It could put the whole thing to rest rather quickly and leave him to contemplate the gala situation.
If Molly brought it up at all, that was.
