"Come on we need to keep you alert." Sherlock's words seemed to echo from some place far away, even though I could see his worry-filled face clearly. My eyes didn't leave the woman lying on the slab, her skin was as white at the dress she was clothed in. She looked exactly like me, and in a bridal gown suited to my tastes, no less. This woman died because of me. My stomach turned, and I took a deep breath, to avoid fainting or wretching all over the floor. I looked down at my hands gripping tightly to the slab for support, my mind unwilling to compute what all of this meant. I knew that eventually the realization would hit me like a train, but I wanted to stay in this state of stupor until reality forced me to reckon with my past.
Sherlock barked something to Lestraude, who shouted back and grumbled under his breath, walking briskly through the double doors without another word. I closed my eyes, feeling the room spinning. I hated the mess I'd inadvertently created between Lestraude and Sherlock. No doubt it would cause their work relationship a great deal of strain. Sherlock turned back to me, his expressions growing soft, his index finger ran down the side of my face as he tried to bring me out of my thoughts.
I sighed heavily, finally meeting his gaze. His blue eyes searched mine, looking for some kind of explanation to what all of this meant. If only it was a simple one. "Take me home….please," I muttered, my voice sounded harsh and ragged, like it wasn't my own. He swung me into his arms and carried me through Saint Bart's. I tried to mumble protestations, but he ignored me completely, his stride was long but hurried as he carried me out into the dreary morning. We were no doubt catching many eyes as he brought me out onto the street, hailing a cab fairly quickly and stuffing me inside like I weighed nothing. I felt the cool satin of the inside of his coat slip over my body. It covered me completely and I breathed in the smell of Sherlock's cologne, feeling safer instantly. I heard the cab door open and close quickly, and Sherlock mumbled the coordinates to the cabbie, who slowly drove into the flow of traffic.
We sat there quietly for what seemed like hours. The silence was stifling, more for Sherlock than for me I was sure. Sherlock was no doubt waiting for my explanation, and itching to solve the problem. He looked out the window, repositioning himself often, rubbing his eyes and looking over at me with worry. "Sherlock," I started, and he jumped, leaning in close when he heard my voice break. "You shouldn't….. You shouldn't have carried me out like that." I started, swallowing hard, trying to fight the dryness in my mouth, "People will start talking." I sat up and leaned against the back of the seat, slowly regaining my strength.
"Molly, you of all people know I don't give damn what other people think about our relationship, professional or otherwise." He started, propping his head up against the glass. " Lestraude went to check the surveillance cameras for the time between your coming and going, but I'm fairly certain none of employees at Saint Bart's planted two doppelgangers in your morgue. Which means attempting to identify who did," He sighed, combing his fingers through his hair hurriedly. I clasped his hand, covering it in both of my own. I kissed his knuckles reassuringly, "I'll tell you what I know, but not here." I whispered, and he nodded in agreement. He pulled me close to his chest with one arm, the other stroking my hair calmly until we arrived at my flat. Sherlock paid quickly, got out and opened my door, and I slid out of the seat and proceeded to walk hurriedly towards the door to the lobby.
We made our way up the stairs quickly, Sherlock following behind me protectively, and I stopped as I eyed the packages laid neatly on my doorstep. My stomach turned as I walked over slowly. I picked up the off white, thick paper which was folded and set neatly on the packages. "As promised... " This time in thick cursive handwriting.
Two black garment bags hung from what appeared to be a hotel luggage cart, and a bag and two packages tied in red ribbon sat neatly on the bottom. I quickly opened the door, my hands shaking as I finally got the deadlock to turn. "Molly, is there surveillance in this corridor?" Sherlock asked, looking for cameras, "We could-" He started, but I interrupted, "He wouldn't deliver those personally; he's much too clever for that." Sherlock stopped, looking at me, puzzled. No doubt he already knew this whole mystery revolved around me.
"He?" He asked, his eyes narrowed, his body instinctively growing tense. I grabbed his hand and pulled him inside, dead bolting the lock back behind us. I paused at the door, thinking about how foolish I was to believe I could get away from my past practically unscathed. "Yes. He." I sighed, turning around to glance back at Sherlock. I side-stepped the luggage cart, walking towards the kitchen, and I heard Sherlock following closely.
I leaned against the countertop, and he leaned against the other side, "Peter Nathaniel Voor. Dr. Peter Nathaniel Voor." I started, "That's who killed those people." Sherlock looked puzzled, "I thought Peter Voor committed suicide." He started, his mind already churning with thoughts, "So did I." I retorted. I moved towards the freezer silently, Quickly wrapping some cold peas in a cloth and placing it gently on Sherlock's bruised jaw, to which he winced. "Sorry, but we need to get the swelling down," He offered a tight lipped grimace in response as I wiped away the rest of the blood now dried from Lestraude's surprise punch.
"Molly, how… how do you know him?" Sherlock asked reluctantly. "Dr. Voor was my criminalistics and criminal psychology professor at Cambridge." I sighed, biting my lower lip. I laughed sardonically," It was my first year. I'd heard his course was rigorous; no one could recall anyone who had good things to say about Dr. Voor. Unfortunately, our class was assigned to him to instruct us in the fundamentals of criminalistics." I remembered it well. Everyone wished us condolences and all of us prepared rigorously for the first day of class. We all felt as if we would meet our doom come the first day. "Dr. Voor was, at that time, a well known scholar of criminalistics and criminal behavior. To say we were all intimidated was an understatement. Further, all of the other young women talked about his Irish accent, salt and pepper hair, and how he wasn't married, nor ever had been, and the rumors why. The only thing other professors would say when asked about Dr. Voor was he was a lone wolf. Collaboration was appalling to him, and he preferred to avoid other faculty, and even students."
"At first, it seemed like a normal, first year class. I was paid no extra attention nor did I want it. I would come to class prepared, was rarely called on to answer questions, but other than the occasional praise from other students, Dr. Voor showed indifference towards me."
"Midterms came and went, and everyone seemed distraught by their scores once posted. I never disclosed to anyone that I had received a remarkably high score. I few days after the scores were posted, Dr. Voor asked to speak to me after class. I dared not refuse, and once the class had filtered out, we discussed my grade and my potential in the field of criminalistics." My eyes drifted away from his for the first time. It was uncanny, now that I thought about it, how Sherlock and Peter were similar. Distant, removed, unduly harsh at times. Remarkably brilliant. I shook my head, "He asked me to be his research assistant, and I hesitantly agreed. Once word got around that Dr. Voor had a female research assistant, which had never happened before, rumors spread. Regardless, this meant many late nights and long days working closely with Peter. At first it was simple research tasks, almost as if he was testing me and my abilities. But every time he evaluated my work, he would smile and remark on how impressed he was."
I put the peas back in the freezer, and laid the towel on the edge of the sink, I looked out the window. This was a conversation I'd hoped I'd never have, and I part of my life I didn't want to revisit. "Do you remember what I was like when we first met?" I said, looking over my shoulder at Sherlock, who still leaned against the countertop, watching me closely. He nodded slowly. "Well, imagine a younger, much more naive version." I said, a smile tugged at my lips, but quickly vanished. "It was simple things I wish I had noticed sooner. Personal phone numbers were exchanged. If we stayed late, he'd invite me to dinner or order in. He'd buy me coffee in the mornings to make up for the late nights. He got...closer, physically closer. A hand on my lower back guiding me through a door or leaning closely over my shoulder as I pointed something out I had discovered in my research. He was smart, witty, and we started disclosing our pasts to each other as we saw each other nearly every day. I never realized…. I didn't even dream…."
"I was a student. Arguably a brilliant one, but he'd taught hundreds of students. No doubt others just like me. But he showed me attention. Attention I had never had. The gifts became more personal, more intimate," I said, my words rushing out quickly. I swallowed, the pit of my stomach churning. "Molly, you don't have to…" Sherlock stepped towards me but I put my hand up,"- Yes. Let me get this out, please. You need to know who we're dealing with," I closed my eyes, not wanting to see the pain and confusion in his eyes. No doubt he felt helpless. He had to watch me unravel in front of him. I felt like a piece of my chest was being ripped out, but I had to tell him the truth. "There were times when our conversations turned away from work. We'd discuss serial killers, psychological profiling and some of the projects he was working on relating to decomposition and even truth detection. He always commented on how unpolluted my mind was. How I was so pure and so steadfast in my own morals and what I deemed right and wrong."
"One night he asked me to dinner at his home. He said there would be other professors there and students. I wanted to decline, but he was insistent. I hesitantly agreed, and he kissed me lightly on the cheek and rushed out the office door. I arrived later that night, dressed as one would for a dinner party, and still perplexed about the kiss earlier. I was welcomed in, but when I walked into the entryway, there were no other guests to be found."
"I should have left then and there, something in my gut begged me to run. Peter smiled and took my coat, politely escorting me into the dining room, and I dared not refuse. Only two plates were set, and candles lit the room. We ate in relative silence, my heart was pounding in my ears. I remember that. I drank the wine placed in front of me quickly, unsure as to why I was there and what all of it meant. All of a sudden, he spoke up. 'You must be wondering why I brought you here, and why I lied about the other guests.' A smirk appeared on his lips as he dabbed the corners of his mouth slowly. My head began to spin. At first I thought it was just the wine. I gripped the edge of the table to steady myself. "I didn't think I'd get you here otherwise, I needed to put your propriety at ease," He stood up slowly and then walked around the table slowly, sizing me up. He pulled me out of my chair and I unwillingly leaned against him. I couldn't make my limbs move, any words I tried to utter were lost in a thick fog. He leaned down next to my ear and whispered. 'You know I love you, Molly. Ever since you walked into my class I have watched you, craved you, needed you. I've wanted to confess this for so long.' Sherlock walked quickly to me, "Molly you're shaking." He said, and I looked down at my trembling hands, then clenched them tightly together to calm myself. "I can still feel his warm breath on my cheek. All I wanted to do was run. I wanted to scream and run out of there. 'See that white residue on the rim of your glass, Molly? Undetectable wasn't it? Rohypnol. A good bit too." All I remember after that was looking up at him, pleading with my eyes, begging him to stop, hoping he'd stop." A ragged sigh escaped my lips and I felt a tear drip down my face. " The rest I hardly remember. Bits and pieces slip through. A caress up my thigh, a soft satin duvet, teeth on my neck. I woke up the next morning in my own bed. I went to the police station and had a rape kit done. No one believed me when I said who it was. Not the dean, the police, no one. I begged someone to check the dorm surveillance footage. No one would help me. I had a friend in cybersecurity find the video footage and extract it so I could go to the dean and show Peter carrying my limp body into my dorm room that night, running his hand up my thigh, and leaving. The investigation was extensive, and with a warrant they found photos of me. Peter had been stalking me. Tracking my coming and going. Writing explicit notes about my body. My mannerisms. It was thought I would eventually become prey to a man who could dispose all the evidence and get away with it. Other evidence was found too. A few unsolved disappearances came to light, but nothing they could definitely prove he had actually committed. He was subsequently fired, and a year later, with no job prospects and his reputation tarnished, he was found in his home dead. Overdose."
I said nothing for a while, Sherlock stood quietly, calmly. "The nightmares were vivid at first, but other than those nightly recurrences, I tried to live a normal life. People talked. They said I'd wanted it, that it had been an ongoing fling and that once I got scared of being caught I fabricated evidence to place the blame on him." A few more tears dripped down my face, but I didn't really feel sad. Maybe it was repressed memories surfacing and rearing their ugly head. "I even… sometimes I blamed myself for his death. But I eventually realized it was not my fault. That I was the victim, and I could put all of it behind me on graduation day and continue on my path with no strings." I let out a heavy, ragged sigh. I shuffled closer to Sherlock, laying my head gently on his chest. He slowly wrapped his arms around my small frame. I closed my eyes and listened to his heartbeat. It was slow and calm and it lulled me into a calmness on its own. "I had hoped to never have to tell you this. I had hoped I could spare myself the pain by never speaking of it again. But you're in danger, Sherlock." I held my breath as I heard his heartbeat quicken slightly. "I know you were always worried that I'd be a target. If you got close to me, I'd eventually become leverage to the next criminal who paid enough attention." I finally looked up at him. His jaw was tense, his gaze was steady. "Who would have ever thought that Sherlock Holmes would ever be used as leverage against Molly Hooper?"
