Blue Sunday
Guys, just a note: This is a story about Sherlock being depressed and is not actually a story about the Surgeon, so the Surgeon is not going to take over the story exactly. Just wanted to say that. Since I'm breaking some writing rules of mystery stuff.
Molly woke the next morning to the feel of someone's eyes on her. Her hand hung heavy off the side of the bed, a smooth weight in her hands. She'd fallen asleep staring at the message, trying to decipher what it could mean. She had an idea, of course.
A terrible idea, and one that had given her nightmares during her precious few hours of sleep. Finding him twice hardly comforted her. Her mind had clearly grasped what a dying Sherlock looked like. Her nightmares did not have to imagine much. Hell, she'd even been to his funeral once. All in the wrong order.
These thoughts pulled her slowly from her sleep to turn towards the curious eyes pawing at her pyjama clad body. Somewhere in the night she'd twisted out of her covers. She was entirely exposed to the cool blue eyes and bright red smile of the woman in her room.
"He's quite a lucky man to find someone who can look so lovely while so troubled."
Molly blushed and tucked the phone underneath her pillow. No messages since Sherlock's last night. No calls either. So then, why had Irene shown up so unexpectedly? There clearly hadn't been any news. She had explicitly stated that Ms. Adler should call if they learned anything new.
"I lost your number. You should give it to me again. Over dinner?"
"It's not even daylight out. How can you possibly be talking about dinner?" Her voice was croaky from sleep.
"Hm. I guess he really didn't talk about me. How unflattering." Irene leaned over her, motions smooth as honey as she pulled Molly's phone away. "I had the most ghastly idea, sweet. I need to check my voicemail."
"Don't you have your own phone for that?"
"I don't use my phone."
Molly recalled the noises Sherlock's phone made whenever Irene texted him. Somehow she didn't believe her, but it wasn't any of her business what the Woman did with her phone. Although, it was her business what was done with her own phone.
"May I ask why you need my phone to call your voicemail?"
"Simple, sweet. My phone was being bugged."
That didn't make sense. It simply didn't. Sherlock had once x-rayed this phone himself and found it wired to destruct should anyone try to tamper with it. How could someone bug it? How could someone get close enough without Irene's explicit consent? Tall and commanding, she denied the appearance of one who'd tolerate unsolicited contact of any sort.
She was half way to pointing out the blatant lie when Irene piped up, a wry smirk on her lips.
"I know, I know. It was weak at best. But it bought me the time to do this." Molly's phone was held to the Woman's ear, a blank feminine voice citing off voicemail options.
"You and Sherlock and all your little tricks." Molly blushed as Irene gave her another appraising look. She wondered why Sherlock had never mentioned that the Woman liked women.
"Yes, I would say we're quite similar." With one last lift of a brow, Irene turned away, listening intently to whatever message she was meant to receive. After a minute or so of contemplation she stood, stretching long limbs like a cat. "Well, let's get going. Lots of investigating to do. I say, it's a good bit of fun to be a proper detective for once, isn't it? Without that brooding arrogant smirk over our shoulder."
"He'll be back soon," Molly mumbled, walking to her closet to pick out her clothes for the day. She tried to resist the urge to scour for her best blouse. Irene would notice if she dressed differently. That would be awkward.
"Three months is hardly soon. We'll have our Surgeon caught before then." Irene tapped the phone against her lips before giving out a big, huffing sigh. "I guess there's nothing for it. I need you to listen to this voicemail. Tell me if it means something to you."
Molly had just decided on a multicolored, striped sweater and jeans when the phone bounced off her arm. She scowled and leaned to pick it up, all too aware of her thin pyjamas. "You just trust me with your messages? I thought you were supposed to be secretive."
"Well, it's only the one right now. I delete all my messages after I hear them. You'd be surprised the garbage I've received on that phone."
Molly tried not to watch the woman toying with the bits and babbles on her night table. Her phone buzzed with a message just as she hit the call button. She was forced to ignore it as the number rang through, answered immediately by the same robotic voice. She navigated the menu, found her way to the messages, and listened.
At first, there was silence. She thought maybe this was some sort of prank, which would be utterly ridiculous given the circumstances. And then she heard a thin breath crackle on the line, overlong and dramatic.
Doctor, doctor. I need a doctor. Lovely lass, my Doctor. Always walking in dark corners. Beep.
Her face paled, the clothes clenched in her hand. She'd heard the voice before.
"Why would he leave you this message? It's… It's about me."
"It's hardly news that Sherlock and I have connections. If he's keeping an eye on Sherlock, he's likely keeping an eye on you too. And me, though I'm sure I'm much more slippery. I'm good at being invisible when I don't want to be seen."
"I don't believe that." The words are out before she can help it, dropped like a heavy and embarrassing weight on her floor.
"I'm glad you think so." Irene smirked at her, and then before her eyes, Molly watched her shrink away. Beautiful dominatrix lifted from the pale skin and in its place was a girl that could have worked at an office, or passed her on the street. Molly suddenly realized her blouse was buttoned all the way up, the dark shade less dramatic than she'd at first imagined.
"How did you do that?" She could be talking to a stranger if she hadn't seen the transformation before her own eyes.
"I'll teach you one day." Everything is different. Even her voice is softer, simpler. No power plays here. Molly feels as though she may be seeing something intimate, something secret.
"I don't think you could."
"Of course I can. Better check that message, sweet. Wouldn't want Sherlock worrying over you now would we?"
Just as she said something, Molly's phone buzzed.
Tell me about the case. I need to work. My mind rots in stagnation. –SH
She considered, remembering what he'd told her last night. There were several possible reactions he could have to the Surgeon's contact. Too many of them were not good.
Nothing important has turned up. I'll update you when it has. Have you spoken to Irene? –MH
Not Ms. Adler now, then? Careful with her, Molly. She's tricky. –SH
She's nice. How is treatment? –MH
Irene hummed at the quick responses, practically laughing at Molly hovering over her phone.
Boring. Can I come home? –SH
No. Sorry. –MH
He didn't respond for the rest of the day. She and Irene walked along the streets where she'd dragged Sherlock not too long ago. The memory of his smooth suit and blank face battered against her heart. More than once she had caught Irene's inquisitive stare before the woman glanced away. Molly always had worn her thoughts in the open. And right now, this was a symbol of all the things wrong.
Irene knew the streets better than she ever did. Within an hour of starting their search they had cornered a jittery fellow who Molly had recognized from one of her turns searching for Sherlock. She'd noticed he stood in front of the same store, vacant eyes flitting about. Irene had stepped back and watched Molly expectantly. It took a moment for her to realize the woman was waiting on her to question the boy.
"Um. Right. Right." She breathed deeply, calming her nerves. "Right. Ok. So, there was a man here a while ago. He hung about for a while. Tall fellow, blond hair. Um, bit stocky? Big nose?"
"Ma'am, you've just described a dozen or so guys wond'ring 'round this street." The boy's eyes were too wide, his tongue flicking out to wet his lips every other word. "I aren't no squealer now. I aren't lookin' to rat nobody out."
"We aren't the police, dear. She cuts up corpses for a living, and I beat men." Irene paused, and with a breath the dominatrix was back. The man in front of her cowered against his corner.
"Now, try to concentrate here. Have you seen the man I just described? Tall, blond, stocky. Big nose."
"That's really not much t' go on, ma'am." This time she's inclined to believe him.
If her arms hadn't have been full of Sherlock Holmes, and her attention hadn't been on forcing her way past whatever drunken slurs were tossed her way, she may have remembered the man's face. He'd counted on that anonymity. He'd counted on her desire to never have been on that street.
"We have a message. If you listen to it, you may recognize his voice. This is important, you hear?"
The boy just nodded. Molly fumbled with her phone, pressed on the recording of the man's voice. The message played, each gravelly 'Doctor' a chill down her spine. When the message finished, she knew the boy recognized the voice. Pale faced, tight lipped, hands suddenly tucked into his pockets.
"No ma'am. Don't know who that fella is. Go on now, outta here." He waves them on, but neither woman moves. Irene's seen it too. Of course she has.
"I don't think so. Who is it?" Irene's voice is sharp.
"Just a janitor, Miss. Just a janitor comes by some time for some stuff. He never bothers no one. Just does his stuff and leaves." The boy tries to scurry further back. "Works at the home up the road. Nice fella."
Molly fears for a moment that Irene may slap the boy, but she doesn't. Instead, she draws her shoulders back and smiles coldly. A photograph of a broken girl lingers in Molly's memory, and she appreciates Irene's strength in the moment. The strength carries them through the next few stops. One stop to find out the janitor in question was not in that day, another stop by his apartment to find he hadn't been home in weeks.
Dead end.
Dead ends were frustrating.
That night, after Irene had parted and she struggled through dinner, she thought of another question. It stood out among the others that flurried around her mind. So many questions, but one repeated. Not until after she was showered and ready for bed did she pull out her phone again. He hadn't messaged her during the meetings. He'd probably talked to John.
What battle? –MH
How was investigating? –SH
You didn't answer my question. –MH
You didn't answer mine either. –SH
She huffed against her pillow, thudding her head back onto the bed. He could be so stubborn. She knew what he wanted to do. He wanted to derail her questions, get her talking about the case so she'd forget she'd asked him.
Heard you were a good detective today. –SH
Had Irene told him?
No, it was John. He's kept an eye on you for me. –SH
Surely he has better things to do. I can handle myself. –MH
You went to take him on by yourself. Not smart. –SH
Not take him on. Just interview him –MH
She sighed. He would never answer her question. He'd waited to answer her first one. He'd probably only caved because she'd been the one to find him. Or some other reason he'd convinced himself that he owed her.
She slept, and dreamed of soft kisses and cigarette smoke. She falls asleep too soon to read the next message. It didn't light her screen until several hours after her last message sent. It was only one word.
Existing. –SH