Drip.
Drop.
Drip. Drip.
Drop!
"We don't have to keep this on. Rosie's asleep upstairs."
Blinking, Cora continues to gaze at the white drapes on the window. "It's fine."
Drip.
Drop.
Drip. Drip.
"Tea?"
Another blink. A pause. Cora glances over. "No, I'm fine."
"Coffee?"
"I said I was fine."
Molly stiffens slightly, lips turn downward slightly, hands tremble slightly. She takes a soft breath. "I am really sorry I couldn't meet you—"
"It's fine," Cora responds and looks to the window again. "It's raining. Not much to do."
"Still, thank you for coming here while I sit Rosie."
The rain continues to patter against the window as Molly silences again. Each patter knocks at the glass, begs to enter, works at worming past whatever barrier stands in its way. Each drop questions why she's put it in the nightstand. Each drip is curious about the cabin.
Hands buried in her hoodie, fingers tapping against her thumbs, she wills the rain to silence. Desires to quash it as she has with Molly's conversation. If it wasn't for John's insistence, if it wasn't for Mycroft hounding, she wouldn't be here anyway. She doesn't want to be here.
Not while whatever is stirring—
"What's he like?"
Cora glances over, brow raised.
"Alexander." Molly tugs on her sleeves. "You've mentioned him once or twice, but…"
Again, her thoughts stray to the ring inside the nightstand drawer. "He's kind."
Molly nods. "Oh, that's… nice."
Cora shifts slightly on the sofa, watching Molly from under her hood. "I imagine the brother knows you're with John by now. You are living here after all."
Molly's eyes widen as she blanches.
"It's not John's kettle on the stove, nor his cat that's meowing in the bedroom. And I highly doubt he'd buy an African Violet to grow," Cora comments as if discussing the weather. When she looks at Molly, however, the woman has tears in her eyes. She winces. "Molly, I…I—"
"It's all right," Molly states with a shake in her voice and wipes her eyes. "They've rubbed off on you."
"I didn't mean it that way. I…" Cora closes her eyes. She can't tell her, won't tell her. With a slow exhale, she looks at Molly again. Swallowing roughly, she gives her the next best thing. "Alexander… proposed."
Molly gaze snaps to her, giving her a once over—not unlike that of the brother. "You don't seem happy."
And now you sound like them, Cora thinks. "Mycroft doesn't know. No one… does. It hasn't been announced."
"You're keeping it from Mycroft."
Cora bites her cheek. "No, I just am not fond of the pomp and circumstance."
A twinge of sorrow fills Molly's eyes as if she knows Cora isn't being completely honest. "Are you living with him?"
"Not…entirely."
"Sounds like…" She hesitates, seemingly picking a different way to state what she might mean. The sorrow in her eyes deepens. Sympathetic enough that the hairs on the back of Cora's neck prickle. "Can I meet him?"
A slow breath out. A nod. At least Molly doesn't force the idea of sex like Genevieve. She doesn't wear rose coloured glasses. Even seems leery. Everything you could hope for from a friend.
Should hope for.
And as long as Molly's focusing on that, she's less likely to see—
"We could all go. Me, John…Well, if you're okay with that."
Cora nods as it grows again. Twisting and snarling and screaming. The rain continues to batter. The waters rise. As long as Molly doesn't ask—
They both startle as the door opens. John enters and gives a soft shake from the rain. Hanging his coat, he smiles at Molly and nods to Cora.
"Evening."
Molly's face lights up as if she herself is the rising sun. "Have fun?"
Rolling his eyes, he walks to the stove and readies the kettle. "It's this Reynard theory again. I wish he'd let it go. There's nothing substantial, and this is me saying this."
"He really thinks Jim might have something to do with everything?" Molly questions.
"Moriarty's been dead for how long?" John heaves a sigh. "Sherlock thinks it's suspicious that Mycroft keeps blocking his inquiries. Thinks he's covering something up."
"Because that would be unlike Mycroft," Molly chuckles as she pulls her mobile from her pocket. There's a quirk in her expressive eyes before she puts the phone to her ear. "Hello?"
Cora silently observes as Molly rises and departs from the room. Her gaze flicks to John whose watchful eye follows Molly. Leaning against the counter, his attention remains on the room. When Molly returns a few minutes later, coat in hand, John shifts towards the kettle.
"They brought the bodies in," she says with a look towards John. "Apparently, they require my immediate attention."
"Bodies?" Cora's brow rises as Molly gives her a passing glance.
"The ones, uh…" She pauses and looks at John seemingly for approval since he gives her a nod. "From your… um… with Greg."
Exhaling slowly, Cora has a sneaking suspicion that John's been gone all day for another reason. One that has to do with a cabin in the woods stained in blood. What's more is they're carefully choosing their words as if they're afraid she might break.
Whatever that means to them.
Grabbing her bag, Molly opens the door. Hesitating at the threshold, she can't quite bring herself to address Cora as she says, "I'll… see you later."
As soon as the door shuts, Cora rises from the sofa believing it's probably the best time to exit as well. With Molly flustered about the deaths, and John's watchful gaze, Cora doesn't need to stick around any more than need be.
"Have a seat," John says as the kettle whistles.
His request startles her causing pause. The hairs on the nape of her neck rise and her fingers clench in her hoodie pockets. Her muscles shift, ready to sprint to the door.
"Go on, then." He motions to a chair at the table.
Against her better judgment, slow steps bring her to a seat. Her fingers grip the back of it, white-knuckled as she squeezes the wood to death. John's casts her a glance as he brings over the tea tray and settles at the table.
"Greg tell you then?" she questions.
"He didn't tell Sherlock if that's what you're worried about. Although, Sherlock probably as an inclining. That room…" John pours two steaming cups. "Anyway, Molly doesn't know. She simply thinks you were attacked, and Mycroft got you out."
"He did," she growls through clenched teeth. Her grip tightens on the chair as her chest clenches and hurts. When she breathes past the pain, she settles into the seat. Again, the rain pelts at her: questioning, wondering, suspecting.
"Battles are tremendously difficult," John says, sliding a cup to her. "They leave terrible repercussions on the mind."
"Are you suggesting therapy?" she questions, sipping as her shoulders ease and her gaze narrows. "Did that work for you, Dr Watson?"
"I didn't say you were mental or needed a shrink." John turns his cup and continues speaking as if they're discussing the rain. "Do you think you need to?"
"I'm fine," she says.
His gaze meets hers, and she leans back in the chair. Fingers gently tapping the cup. If she avoids the conversation, he may let her leave.
"You're going to have bad days," he says gently. "Nightmares. Moments where you feel unhinged. You're going to question your sanity. It's only common. You're going to wonder about their families or who will mourn them."
The snarling inside heightens. After another sip of tea, her hands slip back into her pockets. "Do you wonder that?"
"On dark nights," he admits and takes a sip. "We're all fighting for something in the end, right?"
Giving a half-hearted shrug, she looks at him. "Am I free to go, Doctor?"
He gives her a soft smile. "This isn't your first trauma, is it?"
Her eyes meet his and the snarling silences.
"You've seen others."
"Am I free to go?" she questions, muscles shifting for release.
John sips his tea and he sighs. "They want to evaluate you, the people who work with—for—Mycroft."
"You're not a shrink."
"No, but Mycroft thought I might break the news in a kinder manner."
So, Mycroft thinks she needs to see a shrink. Thinks she's gone mental after all she's been through. Biting her lip, Cora rises from the chair. "Have a good evening."
As she reaches the door, John calls after her.
"He's trying to protect you from that."
Her footing fumbles as she looks back at him. Steadying herself, she turns on her heel.
John's gaze meets her. "Mycroft is concerned."
"Maybe he should have me committed then," she growls.
"No, Sherlock wants to see you committed," John corrects with a chuckle. "Mycroft is protecting you from what they're demanding. They fear because of the…events you've been through you may become a liability. Though, Mycroft doesn't believe that."
Her brow rises.
Standing, John moves towards her. "Sherlock says Mycroft's trust in you is unfounded. Way I see it, there's something you're not saying. Something Mycroft knows about you. Something you're not willing to admit."
Cora doesn't move, doesn't breathe. Instead, she stands at the edge of the dark, deep pool as the snarling returns.
"I saw what you did to those people. You impaled that man in the heart." John's gaze searches for something in her eyes. "You stabbed that woman in the jugular. Those aren't life or death tactics everyone knows."
Teetering on the edge, her palms are sweaty. Heart picking up pace, she can't respond if she wanted to. However, she chooses not to because she murdered those three people. She let them bleed out. She watched them die.
If she admits…
He'll never let her see Molly again.
And she can't bear to lose that friendship, because Molly has been the kindest person she's met on this side of—
"What happened to you?" John whispers, slowly shaking his head. "What does Mycroft want with you?"
To that, she gives a shrug as tears burn her eyes. "If you figure that out, let me know."
His gaze turns sorrowful, pitying. "Do you want to stay here tonight? We've an extra room, and it can help chase the demons—"
"I need to go home. Get some sleep."
Not that she ever truly sleeps.
"Do you want me to take you home?"
She shakes her head because she can't bear for him to wake Rosie on her account. "No, thank you though."
Turning, she's quick to exit and hail a cab before John can think of anything else to ask.
Drip.
Drop.
Drip. Drip.
Drop!
Once the lock to her door clicks behind her, she looks to the pattering of rain outside her window. It's sporadic now, reminding her she has to answer, and giving her the chance to respond.
Drip.
What can she tell the rain that it doesn't already know?
Drop.
It knows of the blood. Knows how the night affects her. Knows how she feels.
Drip. Drip.
Walking to the bathroom, her fingers grip the edge of the counter. Again and again, the chair flips up. The wood flies through the air. The pen finds its mark.
Those deeds are darker than most will ever see.
And yet…
More seem to gather at the edges of her mind. Not all blood and death, but decisions and choices that affect much, much more than the edge of the pool she seemingly stands at. The reflection in the water gazes at her as it sings to the snarling inside, easing it into a growl. It hushes and lulls the creature roaring with the knowledge of something long before. Knowledge she isn't quite sure of. Knowledge she believes Mycroft seeks.
John Watson had it wrong.
So very wrong.
Taking a breath, she uncaps her pills and takes two.
R҉͕̣e̢̙̦̗̮̮͈̞p̶͕̞͚̻̣͉̜e̟͙͇͎͚͞a̗̻̝͎̗t̤͚̖̙̪̫ ̲̥̪A̝̩̟͖̣̬f͕̭t̥̼͍̬̀e̹r̪͍̮͎͟ ̳̪Me̫̹͚͕̜͠
"Mycroft the press are pounding on the doors. What do we tell them?"
Cora looks from Lady Smallwood to Mycroft who glances at her again.
The looks he gives are not like John's sympathetic gaze. Not in the least. Instead, Mycroft's look seems to say he never wants to lose sight of her again. As if he fears this isn't a one-time occurrence and he wants to keep her safe.
The behavior is reminiscent of how a sibling behaves. Or should, Cora thinks with a soft sigh in regard to the dead.
"Have we found the mole?" he questions looking towards Lady Smallwood.
She shakes her head as she paces back and forth before the desk. "We are no closer than we were days ago."
Head tilting, Cora looks to Mycroft for clarification. She hasn't heard about a mole or the press, but she hasn't been into work in thirteen days. Mycroft's only just let her back after the incident, and while she wants nothing more than to be out of her flat, a nagging feeling tells her she shouldn't be here.
Something isn't right.
Mycroft gives her a slow nod. "Someone told the vultures about your charter trip."
Cora pales.
"No need to fret. They only know there was an accident."
"All those people were dead," she says finally admitting to someone what she witnessed, and her fingers tap against the armrests. Swallowing down the lump in her throat, Cora feels the jolt of the crash, sees the dead go through another death, hears Mr Holmes question, 'The Coventry conundrum needs a viable answer, don't you agree?'
Looking at him, she inhales. "What's the Coventry conundrum?"
It's rare that Mr Holmes is caught off guard, but his wide eyes and slightly parted lips tell her she's said something he's never expected. Thirty-nine silent seconds tick by, giving Lady Smallwood a chance to settle in the empty seat at the desk and look at Mycroft.
"How does she know about that?" the woman inquires.
The question closes his mouth. He continues to gaze at her, looking for something in her eyes. It's as if she should know about the conundrum, know where it came from, yet Cora is as lost as Alice in Wonderland.
With a breath, he turns at Lady Smallwood. "Minor discussions in reference to my brother. Obviously, I haven't shared all the details with her."
The comment slams into her like a runaway train. Her fingers clench the armrests because he's openly lied to Lady Smallwood. By this point, after all their dinners, Cora knows he must feel something for the woman. For him to blatantly lie to her…
Lady Smallwood shakes her head. "Mycroft, we need to get ahead of this. It's only going to get worse."
"Tell them the truth."
Cora turns to see Sir Edwin walking towards them. In less than a heartbeat, she's out of the chair and retreating to her corner.
"We tell them your assistant was involved," Sir Edwin states as he occupies the seat she just did. "And are you having her evaluated? I won't have my future daughter-in-law labeled as mental."
Cora freezes half-way to the chair. Just like that the world implodes around her. In one comment, Armageddon has arrived, and nothing will be the same. Taking a shaky breath, she looks at Mycroft and locks her knees to keep perfectly still.
The look he gives her is filled with utter betrayal.
"Ah, she hasn't told you, has she?" Sir Edwin questions with his gaze locked on her. "I see. Then she mustn't have informed you she will be resigning from this position as well."
Cora doesn't need to look at Sir Edwin to realise he's set her up. No, the man's intentionally said this in front of Mr Holmes before word was announced. Most likely it's to drive a wedge between her and her employer, though she isn't entirely certain why. Regardless, the damage is done since Mr Holmes shifts and refuses to look at her.
"I suppose congratulations are in order, Ms Merriman," he says shuffling through the files on his desk. "My gift to you is giving the rest of today off. Have a lovely evening."
Cora doesn't need to respond. She simply grabs her purse and leaves. It isn't until she gets home that she dissolves into tears as the world burns down around her.
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