Chapter Twenty-Nine: And So It Begins
Molly was late returning to work from lunch with Mary, which she knew meant she'd be late returning to the flat. But there was nothing to be done to change that. As she hurried through the last of her paperwork for the day, she wondered if she should text Sherlock to let him know. Just as quickly, she decided not to. Either he would be in a mood because Mary had made him babysit or he was out working a case. Whichever it was, a text concerning her expected delay would be most unwelcome.
As she electronically signed her name to the last form and submitted it, her brain went over the interesting bits of advice Mary had given her concerning how to deal with Sherlock. Mary had stressed the need to keep him in line.
"You let him think he's running things and you'll never find peace. Keep him on a leash. A long leash, but a leash just the same. It's the only way. The trick is doing it in such a way as he doesn't notice he's on the leash."
Molly shook her head in dismay. Sherlock was always running things. Sure, there were times she made him pay attention to her, but to maintain control of him at all times wasn't something she was willing to do. Furthermore, she wasn't sure it could be accomplished. Sherlock was like a feral animal. He'd been on his own for too long to ever be tamed. Besides, she considered as she started powering down her computer, she liked him as he was. That wild, regressive streak he had was incredibly sexy—always had been.
Not to say that all of Mary's advice could be so easily dismissed. The woman was quite astute when it came to the consulting detective.
"He's horrible at discerning human nature in everyday situations—especially that of women. He has a hard time trusting females and an even harder time understanding them. Mycroft is the same way. It's the oddest thing. Though this isn't a complex they got from their mother. She's lovely."
Molly had raised her eyebrows at this news. Mary had met Sherlock's mother? When? Where? What had been said? What was she like? She'd wanted to ask a million questions about the woman who had given birth to the world's only consulting detective, but as Mary had already moved on to additional advice about Sherlock, Molly hadn't wanted to interrupt. Besides, she wasn't sure it was her place to ask those kinds of personal questions. And, if she did ask, she wasn't sure it wasn't better to ask Sherlock himself. And Lord knew how that conversation would play out.
She had found all of Mary's insights interesting-especially the "tell" which indicated Sherlock was lying. In the end, it was a remarkably normal one, one Molly felt she should have already known. She couldn't wait to observe him the next time he was on one of his cases around her. She had no intention of letting Sherlock in on the fact that she knew (it would be nice to have a few secrets from him, if possible), but relished being able to discern such things in any case.
By the time she was retrieving her things from her locker to go home, her mind had turned to dinner. If she remembered correctly, there were enough items in the fridge and pantry to make quick fry up of fish and chips. No, there aren't, she instantly corrected, remembering that she'd cooked those over the weekend. Well, that's it, she decided. She'd have to stop by the shops. It meant she would be even later, but what else could be done?
—RE—
Molly left from the front entrance of St. Bart's, looking around her as she did every evening. Even though she was never able to spot the detail of men assigned to follow her everywhere she went to ensure her safety from Jim Moriarty, she had always felt more protected in the knowledge that they were there. Today, however, she felt strangely alone. She was sure it was just an overreaction on her part, but the feeling followed her as she made her way down the sidewalk and to the tube station. Pushing these ridiculous worries out of her mind, she took the last unoccupied seat on the tube headed uptown. She was chin deep in a book when the man next to her spoke.
"Molly?"
She glanced up and froze, feeling her stomach twist uncomfortably. Oh God. No. Not this. Not him. Not now. She'd known this would probably happen at some point, but she had—most cowardly—hoped this meeting would take place many, many years from now. She opened her mouth to respond, but closed it just as quickly.
After all, what could she possibly say to him?
—RE—
When the third kidney exploded, Sherlock gave up. Evidently, his experiment was not meant to be accomplished today. That its success could have changed the way humans understand the way kidneys function was apparently irrelevant. His ability to adequately focus on his work was gone, as was the last of his patience. Removing his face shield and shucking the coveralls he'd put over his clothes, he tossed both away and stalked into the lounge to sulk in his chair.
Sherlock was irritated. There were a myriad of reasons for this. The first one that came to mind was staunchly ignored. That one, after all, was patently ridiculous. He would rise above. He was a person, not an animal.
The second and most enduring reason was the lack of a substantial case. He hadn't heard from Lestrade all day, there were no clients, and a quick scan of his email account yielded nothing more than the usual tedium wrought of greed, revenge, and lust. If someone has to be greedy, revengeful, or lusty, they should at least be clever and interesting when concocting and carrying out their nefarious plans, he thought with a sullen shake of his head. If today was any indication of the intelligence of the criminal classes, the world was being overrun with boring idiots.
There was the Moriarty case, of course. But as nothing new had happened in that area, he was at a stand-still until the professor made a move. Honestly, it was worse than that time he'd made the colossal error of playing chess with his father, who spent twenty, mind-numbing minutes ruminating over each move before he actually made them.
Next on Sherlock's list of irritations of the day was one Mary Morstan. He'd always liked John's wife—even though she'd shot him. In fact, he found he liked her better after she shot him. One had to respect a person who would do whatever it took if a situation called for it. No tears, guilt, or recriminations. Just cold, unwavering logic. Honestly, it was qualities like that which made him sometimes like her more than John.
But this latest stunt of hers was unforgiveable. Making him babysit Abby? Absurd. He had tried to tell her so when she came bursting into his bedroom this morning. Instead, she plopped the child carrier on the end of his mattress, gave the room a sweeping inspection, demanded he get out of bed, informed him she would return in a few hours, and left before he could do anything to stop her.
Clearly, she was set on getting even with him for that time several months ago when he'd needed John for the Wilkins case. Yes, he knew it wasn't considered couth to go rushing into a couple's bedroom in the middle of the night. But the case was a nine and a triple homicide with a decapitation thrown in for good measure! Did she think those came along every day? Besides, John had refused to answer the multitude of texts he'd sent. What was he supposed to have done?
Of course, Abby started wailing seconds after seemingly realizing her mother had departed—showing a remarkable amount of common sense to Sherlock's mind. What child would actually want to be left under his charge or spend any amount of time even in his presence? Well, there's Archie. But most children weren't like Archie.
Sherlock had bellowed for Mrs. Hudson, but as the landlady didn't appear and the repeated shouting only seemed to increase the pitch and fervor of Abby's cries, he tried to contain his desperate need to panic. Screaming children were not his forte. Finally, when he could stand the noise no longer, he decided to try what had worked before. This, of course, was how it was that Mrs. Hudson had come upstairs to find Sherlock dancing around the flat with an infant while singing a pop song that hadn't been a hit in more than thirty years.
"I didn't know you knew any Elton John, Sherlock," she remarked from the doorway.
He stopped in his tracks, glaring at her for good measure. "About time you got here. I called and called. Are you in need of a hearing enhancement device, madam?"
"If I had rushed right up, I would have missed you dancing with her. Wish I'd filmed it, but I don't know how to work that part of my mobile. Shame, really."
Hating the undercurrent of humiliation the landlady's smirking, now-isn't-that-cute? expression was forcing upon him, he dumped his goddaughter into her welcoming arms. Then, collecting the rest of Abby's things and delivering them to 221 A, he effectively ejected both females from his flat. That Mrs. Hudson didn't protest in the slightest proved his earlier deduction that Mary had called in the older woman as back up.
He decided to take a nice, long bath in order to establish a return to good humor and rational thought processes. But that wasn't meant to be. As he soaked in the tub, thoughts of Molly and the previous evening kept cropping up. Even as he washed his hair and fashioned the soap Mohawk that had never failed to amuse him in the past, memories of the past evening with Molly invaded until he was seriously considering heading down to the morgue in search of her. When he unconsciously began calculating how much weight one of the slabs could hold as well as how complicated it might be to seduce Molly on one of them, he rinsed himself off and got out of the tub in disgust at his own weakness.
Lust? That's all I can think about now? What is this relationship doing to me?
Three cigarettes later, he tried to turn his attention with telly, but it seemed more inane than usual and he quickly switched off. Next, he wandered into the kitchen to make himself a sandwich. There, he found the book Molly had left for him. But seeing it only reminded him of her, which made him think of how soft her skin was every time he touched her, which led down a path he feared to tread. So, he hid the book in one of the cabinets, finished his lunch and had a fourth cigarette.
Mary returned some time later to collect her daughter. Sherlock had expected her to chide him for refusing to spend more than a few minutes in Abby's presence or at the very least, crow at her well-plotted revenge scheme. Intent on ignoring her, he held up his phone and started deleting emails.
Instead, Mrs. Watson plonked into John's old chair and said, "Why did you remove them?"
That got his attention. "Who?"
"The men who have been following John's and my every move ever since this Moriarty fellow popped back up are gone. Has something happened?"
Sherlock put his phone down. "What do you mean, they're gone?"
"I mean they weren't there today. I usually see them, but they weren't anywhere."
"Maybe they got better at hiding from you."
Mary narrowed her eyes at him. "No one can hide from me." She leaned forward in her chair. "Besides, Molly's are gone, too."
That threw him for a loop. His mouth fell open. Instead of answering her, he'd grabbed his phone back up and shot off a text Mycroft. His brother, much to Sherlock's frustration, didn't immediately answer.
"You didn't know," Mary determined.
He frowned at her in response as he got tired of waiting for a text and started ringing Mycroft instead. The elder Holmes knew his younger brother's habits well enough to know better than to ignore him. When the voicemail sounded for the second time, Sherlock released a muffled curse and started checking his phone. Seconds later, he felt better.
"Molly is still at Bart's."
"I figured you had some additional tracker on her. Any idea why Mycroft had the security details removed?"
He had some suspicions. The first and most obvious was as a way of urging Sherlock to hurry up with closing this case.
Mary didn't wait for his answer. "I know Jim Moriarty is dead, but the professor is still out there. Surely Mycroft understands the need for continued caution?"
Trust John to keep his wife informed of everything, Sherlock thought to himself. In this case, however, it was a welcome revelation. It saved him some time. "Apparently not. Then again, he doesn't believe the professor exists."
"Is he an idiot?"
Sherlock laughed. He couldn't help it. "Why don't you ask him that the next time you happen to see him? I dare you."
Mary rolled her eyes.
"Don't worry. I'll talk to Mycroft. The details will be put back in place."
Mary nodded and got to her feet. "Good. Now, if you will excuse me, I'll collect my daughter from your nice landlady and be on my way. You know," she said, "I expected you to last longer with her than ten minutes. It's pathetic that you didn't actually."
He eyed her with disdain, refusing to take her bait.
"Then again," she continued, "I'd have paid anything to see you dancing around to Crocodile Rock. I'm told it's quite a sight to behold."
"Mrs. Hudson talks too much."
"You would think that," Mary said with a laugh as she walked out of the door.
Sherlock stared after her as she left, not liking the underlying deductions he made from her words and her visit. Refusing to dwell on such inconsequential things, he called his brother again. Once he got the voicemail again, he shot off another, more severe text. Then, with one last check that Molly was indeed where she should be, he'd invested himself in his experiments.
And now here he was, several hours later, smoking the last of his cigarettes and waiting for the woman who'd refused to leave his mind all day to show up in person.
Is this what I've been reduced to? The great consulting detective?
Molly was already twenty minutes late. A quick check on her told him she was at the shops, something she frequently did after work. He made a mental note to hide more money in her purse. When Molly had blatantly refused to take his card for frequent grocery shopping trips—citing his unwillingness to accept money towards the rent or any other bill in regards to the flat—he had started secreting funds in her purse. He knew John would have been surprised that he would even care about something so trivial, but knowing the meagerness of her salary, he refused to have Molly spending money she should be saving on buying him milk. Now that she was his companion, he was more intent than ever that she should keep her salary for herself. There were few areas in his life when Sherlock considered himself a true gentleman, but this was one of them.
He considered sending her a text telling her to pick up some more cigarettes, but thought better of it. One, even though she'd never overtly complained about his occasional smoking habit, he knew she didn't like it. Two, she didn't know he'd put a tracking device on her. Even if she assumed he'd somehow managed to deduce her whereabouts by his usual means—As if he could. He was, after all, a consulting detective, not a psychic!—Sherlock had no interest in taking the chance of possibly cluing her in. Instinct told him she wouldn't like it, and Molly Hooper with a temper was something he preferred to avoid.
Besides, if there was someone here who deserved to be in a temper, it was him. He was still disgruntled by how she'd so expertly handled him last evening. Every necessity had been intuitively seen to without requiring him to say a word. Many men, he knew, would have been contented and pleased by this.
Sherlock wasn't most men. It was unnerving to have a woman know him so well as to be able to predict his desires and motives. It also highlighted how little control he had in this relationship. He liked to be in control. Things ran so much more smoothly then.
Things ran quite smoothly last night as well. You certainly weren't complaining, were you?
He ignored John's voice in his head. It had been a lingering presence during his two years away from London—something which he believed had manifested itself only because he missed his best friend. When it became more pronounced at his return home, he'd assumed it was because John initially refused to speak to him. Now, over a year later, he realized it was here to stay. John Watson had effectively become his voice of reason when he was knowingly lying to himself, his Jiminy Cricket, if you will.
Sherlock shoved it all away as he shot to his feet. He went into the lavatory to clean his teeth. It was only when he'd changed his clothes that John's voice came again.
So, what's the plan, then? Snog her while she brings in the groceries? Have your way with her on the staircase?
"Don't be ridiculous," he muttered.
Is that why you changed into her favorite shirt?
"I tell you, I have no plans to kiss her."
Yeah? Why clean your teeth then?
He ignored this in favor of making himself a cuppa, he returned to the lounge and tried to focus on something else—anything else. Unfortunately, before he could do this, the woman herself showed up.
His eyes swept over her. No bags. No shops then. Or something stopped her from going. What? Hair windblown from walking. Cheeks reddened. Also from the wind? Eyes—
Molly didn't come into the lounge. She barely stopped at all as she hurried upstairs to her room. She said nothing to him. She didn't even look his way. Sherlock was bewildered.
Is she angry at me? What have I done?
Just as quickly, he realized he was being ridiculous. Whatever this was had nothing to do with him.
Is she upset about the detail disappearing? Is she worried about her safety?
He headed for the stairs, intent on finding out what was going on. When he hit the bottom stair, however, he caught a whiff of her scent. Lavender, lemon, and a light hint of decomposition. But this time, a new odor mingled with it. Well, not new exactly. No, he'd smelled this particular intermingling of scents before. He knew what it meant.
Sherlock's hands unwillingly fisted at his sides as he took the stairs two at a time.
A/N: Have you ever wondered who Misophonia is? Whether I'm a published author in real life? I get asked these questions all the time, and I finally decided to answer them. Why not? We're all friends, right?
Misophonia's real name is Bettie Williams. I'm an award-winning author of novels and short stories from South Carolina who took a short break from her own characters to follow through on her obsession with writing for her favorite television shows (like Sherlock). This is because my first novel—a historical romance—was recently published. It's called The Rake's Tale, and if you like my writing, humor, and storytelling style, you should check it out. (Best of all: You can read it all in one swoop without having to wait for me to update!)
It's available in paperback through Amazon, Barnes and Noble, Books-A-Million or your favorite book retailer. It is also available on Kindle through Amazon. If you liked it, leave me a review on Amazon or your favorite book outlet. Even though I have no intention of giving up my obsession for writing fanfiction, becoming a real-world published novelist is something I have wanted for a long, long time. Your support is greatly appreciated.
And now I am off to write some more. (It never ends.) Until next time, my friends!
