After Sherlock had jumped off of the roof of Barts hospital - and he had actually jumped himself, though Molly still didn't know the exact mechanism that permitted his survival - Mycroft and one of those horribly stereotypical, expensive black cars arrived at the hospital to officially identify the body, but unofficially secret his brother out of the hospital. Mycroft had arrived with two tall, thin, black-suited men and he left with what appeared to be the same two tall, thin, black-suited men.
When that part of the plan had been explained to Molly, as she had had to hide changes of clothes in the mortuary to allow for the switch, she had actually laughed at how horribly cliché it was, like something out of a film. But it had worked perfectly. One of the men that had arrived with Mycroft changed into casual clothes in the morgue and walked out of the front of the hospital. Sherlock had left with his brother, dressed and styled the same as the man whose place he was taking. People saw what they wanted to see, and no one had noticed the deception.
When Mycroft had arrived at the morgue that day, his mask of cold indifference broke for just a moment, but it was long enough that Molly could see that he was relieved that his brother's ludicrous plan had worked and that he was not being asked to identify Sherlock's actual corpse.
Molly did not know how the two men ended up so at odds with each other. Mycroft's icy calm to Sherlock's firey chaos certainly gave her somewhere to start, but it was obvious to those that knew them that the brothers were quite protective of one another, no matter how much they pretended otherwise. In the few interactions she had with the elder Holmes brother, Molly had decided she liked him. He was stiff and formal, but had a cutting wit where Sherlock was just cutting. Mycroft possessed the capacity for social finesse that his younger brother lacked. It certainly explained his ability to navigate the upper echelons of British power the way he did.
So she was more than a little apprehensive that the man that Sherlock had told her is the British Government was standing here, telling her that the father of her child was gone.
Molly swallowed thickly, her mouth having gone dry. "What do you mean gone," she hissed.
"Before I say anything further, I will assure you that I do not believe we are being monitored, but consumer grade mobiles do have a pesky little habit of being exceptionally easy to hack into. This morning, the security rating on Sherlock's file was increased and it is now a requirement to secure mobiles such as yours before his work can be discussed." He turned to Andrea. "I hope I do not need to detail precisely what my presence here requires of you. I am certain you are well versed in the need for discretion in your work." Andy nodded solemnly.
"We get it, Mycroft. Official Secrets, cloak and dagger nonsense. Where. Is. Sherlock?" Molly felt very exposed in the thin cotton gown she still wore. She pulled it more tightly around her.
"I don't know," he said simply. "What's more, neither does anyone who is supposed to be aware of his whereabouts. It's not the first time he's gone haring off like this, but his usual avenues of escape were already being monitored."
"And because Sherlock knows London better than Google, none of your people can find him."
"Just so." He paused a moment, looking down at his own mobile, one Molly knew was heavily digitally secured. "Miss Hooper, I believe your sister would do well with some tea. Would you please be so kind as to fetch her a cup from the pathology lounge?"
The blonde woman understood that she was being dismissed. She looked from Molly to Mycroft with a worried look, but rose to leave. She opened her mouth to ask for her mobile, but a quelling look from Mycroft stopped her. She unlocked the door and exited into the hall. Mycroft locked the door again behind her.
Mycroft spoke in a cool, calm voice. "I learned early this morning that Sherlock was being redeployed against my express orders. He was to meet his contact at six this morning. She sent word that he hadn't made the meeting. My team pulled her out of the Thames an hour ago."
Molly's hand shot up to cover her mouth which had dropped open in shock. "You don't think…"
He shook his head. "She killed herself. I do not believe Sherlock was the direct cause of her death."
"Has he contacted you at all? Do you know why he left?"
"His absence is causing some upset, but I can only assume he is trying to avoid being sent away." Mycroft said simply.
Molly snorted in an unladylike fashion. "Some upset. What did you mean he was being redeployed?"
"The decision was made that it was necessary for him to continue with the assignment from which he had been diverted in January."
"The suicide mission?" Molly whispered. Sherlock hadn't told her of his near-exile, but John had decided that Molly had a right to know what had happened. The detective's best friend knew she had proven able to keep a secret, and felt she could be trusted with the truth of what happened at Christmas, and the lengths Sherlock had gone to in the protection of the Watsons. Molly had been both horrified and moved by John's accounting.
John had only suspected that the mission in Eastern Europe was more of a death sentence than an assignment, but the tightening of Mycroft's hand on the handle of his ever-present umbrella confirmed that John's suspicion had been correct. It was the only sign Mycroft gave that he hadn't been aware she knew about that assignment. "I would not phrase it so indelicately, but yes."
"Why would they do that?" she asked in a small voice.
Mycroft pursed his lips. "I don't know. I don't like not knowing," he said darkly.
Molly ran her hand over her belly, still covered only by the thin cotton gown. "Please bring him home, Mycroft. You've done it before."
He looked at the small woman, allowing a bit of gentleness to creep into his voice. "I will certainly try, Molly." It was the first time he had addressed her with such familiarity.
The enigmatic Holmes had left Molly soon after, her mind turning over and her stomach in knots. She returned Andrea's phone to her and relayed the warning from Mycroft about secrecy. Molly was supposed to work after her appointment, but couldn't summon the will to go. She saw her sister off and then emailed the head of pathology to advise him she was taking a personal day. Deciding against walking the half mile home, Molly hailed a cab.
"221 Baker Street, please."
She paid and exited the cab twenty minutes later in front of the address that had become associated in the public's mind with Sherlock Holmes. She had sent John a text, telling him that Sherlock had to leave for something to do with the case and that she didn't know when he'd be back. The fact of the detective's disappearance would be known to anyone who dealt with him by now, so Mycroft had assured her it was safe to disclose that much, but she didn't want to worry John and Mary as they tried to settle into life as a family. There was nothing they could do right now, anyway.
Two people were standing outside the elegant black door and Molly looked at them curiously as she approached, realizing only too late that they were press. The taller of the two rounded on her and she heard the rapid-fire click of his camera shutter before she processed that they were waiting for her. The somewhat oily looking woman beside the photographer approached her, a falsely pleasant smile on her face. "Molly! Trinity Clarke, Daily Mail. I hear congratulations are in order! Do you have time for a few questions?"
"No, no thank you. I just…" Molly kept her head down and tried to get past the woman, but she stepped in front of her each time Molly tried to move to the side. "Please just let me by," she said pitifully.
"Are you certain you don't have a moment? Come, let me get you a cup of coffee. You look awfully tired," the journalist motioned to Speedy's, the café above which Sherlock lived.
"Hello Molly, dear!" Mrs Hudson called from the door. The nasty woman that had been blocking Molly turned to look, and the diminutive pathologist sidestepped her neatly and ran up the steps to enter the building.
"Thank you," she breathed to the older woman. "Are they always like that?"
"Oh, worse, dear. Much worse. Haven't been about much lately but Sherlock has been a bit quieter than usual. He's not been in all night, if you're here to see him." Martha Hudson lead her up to the second floor flat and set about preparing some tea.
"He might not be back for a while, actually," Molly told her, continuing the partial truth she had told John. "Something to do with his case. He left this morning. I just came to get some papers I think I forgot here."
Drawing from the happiness she'd felt early this morning, though it felt feigned right now, Molly tried to school her expression into one of excitement. "Mary had the baby last night! Sherlock and I were at the hospital to see her."
Mrs. Hudson beamed at her. "How did it all go, then? What did they name her?"
"Went well. They named her after Sherlock." The frustration and fear she felt abated momentarily when she saw the kind woman's face scrunch up in horror. Molly laughed.
"The poor dear thing… Saddled with a name like that." She shook her head.
"They named her Willa, after his first name, William. Just over six and a half pounds, and she's got curly blonde hair," Molly smiled at the memory. She had never really been one for babies, but her current state certainly put her in a more receptive state of mind about their charms.
"Willa Watson - that's a fair sight better than a girl named Sherlock!" The two women laughed. Hearing the kettle switch click, Mrs. Hudson returned her attention to making the tea. She hunted out the box of chocolate biscuits that Sherlock usually kept. "I'll have to go see them later. Have you told Miriam and Thomas?"
She clapped her hand to her face in frustration. John and Mary had been touched by how the Holmes' shared in their excitement about their daughter, and had asked Molly to ensure they were alerted when the newest Watson was born. "It completely slipped my mind. I was going to ring them this morning after my scan but I forgot."
"Well I'm sure you can tell them all about it. Now - what is it? Boy or girl?" Molly's mind was pulled back to the disappointment she felt about Sherlock missing the appointment, and the fear that was gripping her now that the dangerous game he was playing seemed to be gearing up. It was hard to be upset around the perpetually happy and pleasant older woman, though, and she gave her a small smile.
"I'm having a boy," she said.
Mrs. Hudson gave her a bright, beaming smile. "Oh that's lovely dear. You'll name him something besides Sherlock, I hope."
"Yes, I don't think the world could handle two Sherlock Holmes."
"You're probably right, dear. I have to be going, but there's some tea and biscuits for you. Just lock up when you leave."
She left down the stairs and a moment later Molly heard her entering her own flat.
Molly hadn't been completely sure why she came here. She supposed she hoped to find something that would tell her when Sherlock was coming back, but she doubted there would be anything she could find that hadn't already been checked out by Mycroft's people. She poured herself a cup of tea and looked around as she waited for it to cool. The flat was its usual, moderately disorderly state. She didn't see anything conspicuously out of place.
His laptop sat open on his desk, a small mess of papers beside it. Nothing looked as if it had been disturbed in haste, as far as she could tell, but Molly was no detective.
The large web of paperwork that Sherlock had pinned to the far wall beside that ridiculous spray painted happy face was gone. Several pins remained with small torn bits of paper on them. Even she could see that meant they had been taken down in a hurry. Her brow furrowed, and she wondered if Sherlock had been the one to remove them.
She walked down the hall and walked through the open door to his bedroom. Molly almost compulsively closed doors behind her, and Sherlock's habit of leaving them open drove her to distraction sometimes. She had never been in his bedroom before - and marvelled somewhat at the neatness of it. Given the state of the rest of the flat, she couldn't help but be surprised. Again, nothing appeared out of place. Letting out a small huff of annoyance, she walked back into the hall, reaching for the door handle.
She heard a soft thump behind her as she pulled the door closed and turned back to look. A book had dropped into the doorway. She looked up at the top of the door and realized it must have been balanced on top of the door. But why?
She reached down and picked up the novel. It was one of Sherlock's favourites and he had been horrified that she had seen the film without reading it. Turning the book over to look at the back, she had to smile, and she knew it was a message Sherlock intended for her.
Printed on the back of the book, in large, friendly letters, were the words "DON'T PANIC."