43.
Pulling on her coat, Molly Hooper walked along the corridor. She was tired and ready for lunch, wondering if she had enough time to walk to that nice café where the owner knew her name and favourite sandwich . . .
"Molly!" Sherlock cried, bursting in through the doors with John and Elspeth close behind.
"Oh, hello," Molly said. "I'm just going out."
Sherlock put his hands on her shoulders, turning her around, and Molly felt her heart speed up a bit at the sudden contact.
"No you're not," he said.
"I've got a lunch date." It was a lie, of course, to make herself seem a little bit less pathetic and more like she actually had a social life.
"Cancel it," Sherlock ordered. He put his hand on the small of her back – there were only a few layers between his hand and her skin, Molly realised, her cheeks tinged pink – and pushed her down the corridor. "You're having lunch with me." Sherlock reached into his pocket and dramatically produced a bag of Quavers crisps from each pocket.
"And John and I," Elspeth added from behind them.
"What?" Molly asked, confused.
"Need your help," Sherlock explained, putting the crisps back in his pockets. "It's one of your old boyfriends – we're trying to track him down. He's been a bit naughty!"
Sherlock reached the doors at the end of the corridor, stopped, and turned to smile at Molly. She'd stopped a few paces behind him.
"It's Moriarty?" John asked, also stopping. Elspeth froze at the mention of his name.
"Course it's Moriarty."
"Er, Jim actually wasn't even my boyfriend," Molly spoke up. "We went out three times. I ended it."
"Yes, and then he stole the Crown Jewels, broke into the Bank of England and organised a prison break at Pentonville," Sherlock replied. "For the sake of law and order, I suggest you avoid all future attempts at a relationship, Molly."
He brandished the crisps at her once more and continued walking, the doors swinging shut behind him. John followed. Molly stared after his in utter bewilderment.
"Did . . . did Jim really do all those things?" she asked Elspeth.
"Amongst other things," Elspeth muttered, but when Molly began to ask what she meant, she walked away.
"Oil, John," Sherlock said, sitting at the bench in front of a microscope in his favourite lab. John and Elspeth sat on the opposite side, the latter watching Sherlock. "The oil in the kidnapper's footprint – it'll lead us to Moriarty. All the chemical traces on his shoe have been preserved. The sole of the shoe is like a passport. If we're lucky we can see everything that he's been up to."
He looked at the slide under the microscope and fell silent. Sighing, John got up and moved away from the bench to look through papers on the other side of the lab, deciding that he might as well make himself useful.
Elspeth looked across the bench at Sherlock, frowning for a second before joining John across the lab.
Molly paused, her eyes flickering between Sherlock and Elspeth. She'd known them both for quite a few years, but she was always struck by how similar they were. She glanced at Sherlock. He looked sad. Molly turned her attention to Elspeth. She looked sad as well.
"I need that analysis," Sherlock said.
Molly shook herself from her thoughts, pulling on gloves before squeezing liquid into a glass dish and applying Litmus paper. "Alkaline," she called over her shoulder when it turned blue.
"Thank you, John."
"Molly," she corrected.
"Yes."
Frowning, Molly turned away unhappily. While Sherlock continued his analysis, she stood next to him and did her own work on her laptop, listening to him murmur to himself. It had always mesmerised her, Sherlock's voice, but he kept muttering something odd.
"I owe you," he said softly. He said it over and over again, and it made Molly confused.
"What did you mean, I owe you?" she asked finally. Sherlock raised his eyes. "You said, 'I owe you'. You were muttering it while you were working."
Sherlock looked back down at his microscope. "Nothing. Mental note."
Molly gazed at him for a few seconds. "You're a bit like my dad. He's dead." Those last two words she hadn't meant to say, and she closed her eyes, embarrassed. "No, sorry."
"Molly, please don't feel the need to make conversation. It's really not your area," Sherlock told her. Molly cringed slightly, but continued talking.
"When he was . . ." her voice trailed off. Molly hated the word. "dying, he was always cheerful. He was lovely – except when he thought no one could see. I saw him once. He looked sad."
"Molly," Sherlock said sternly.
"You look sad," Molly told him. Her eyes flickered towards John and Elspeth. "when you think they can't see you."
Sherlock followed her gaze. John and Elspeth were unaware of the conversation. Sherlock remembered that, when she was young, Elspeth would fling her arms around his neck and hug him so he didn't feel so sad anymore. For some reason, that made him feel even sadder.
"Are you ok?" Molly asked him. He opened his mouth but she interrupted him. "And don't just say you are, because I know what that means, looking sad when you think no-one can see you."
"You can see me."
"I don't count."
Sherlock blinked. For the first time, he looked at Molly. He really looked at her.
"What I'm trying to say is that, if there's anything I can do, anything you need, anything at all, you can have me," Molly said. She flinched. "No, I just mean . . .I mean if there's anything you need . . ." She shook her head. "It's fine."
Embarrassed, Molly turned to walk away. Sherlock continued to stare at her.
"What – what – what," he stammered. He never stammered, not like that. "could I need from you?"
"Nothing," Molly said firmly. She shrugged. "I don't know. You could probably say thank you, actually."
"Thank you," Sherlock said hesitantly. The words made him frown and he turned away, as if surprised that he had said those words.
"I'm just going to go and get some crisps. Do you want anything?" Molly asked him, and though Sherlock opened his mouth to answer, she beat him to it. "It's okay, I know you don't."
"Well, actually, maybe I'll –"
"I know you don't," Molly repeated, her voice soft. She left the room. Sherlock watched her go, his gaze thoughtful, and turned his attention to Elspeth before looking back down to his microscope.
John, who was unaware of the conversation that had just taken place, picked up a photograph of a wax seal.
"Sherlock," he said. "This envelope that was in the trunk, there's another one."
"What?"
John crossed the lab, taking the envelope out of his jacket pocket. Elspeth followed him.
"On our doorstep," he explained, taking the envelope from his pocket. "Found it today. Yes, and look at that. Exactly the same seal." He handed it to Sherlock, who took out some of the brown dust.
"Breadcrumbs," Sherlock said.
"It was there when I got back."
"Breadcrumbs, fairy tales," Elspeth said, her eyes widening slightly. "It's almost like Hansel and Gretel." Sherlock gave her a blank look. "They follow a trail of breadcrumbs to get out of the woods when they're abandoned."
Sherlock nodded in understanding; he'd read that book to Elspeth a few times when she was young.
"What sort of kidnapper leaves clues?" John asked, confused.
"The sort that likes to boast, the sort that thinks it's all a game. He sat in our flat and he said these exact words to me – 'Every fairy tale needs a good old fashioned villain'." Putting the envelope down, Sherlock adjusted his microscope and looked into it again. "The fifth substance, it's part of the tale. The witch's house."
"What?"
"The glycerol molecule. PGPR!" Sherlock cried suddenly.
"What's that?" John asked, watching Sherlock leap to his feet.
"It's used in making chocolate," he said, striding out of the lab.
"Looks like we better follow him," Elspeth said with a wry grin. John smiled back.
"This fax arrived an hour ago," Lestrade said. He handed a sheet of paper to Sherlock while leading him, John and Elspeth through the main office. The fax was a large handwritten note: HURRY UP, THEY'RE DYING. "What have you got for us?"
"Need to find a place in the city where all five of these things intersect," Sherlock said, giving Lestrade a piece of paper.
"Chalk, asphalt, brick dust, vegetation . . . What the hell is this? Chocolate?"
"I think we're looking for a disused sweet factory."
"We need to narrow that down. A sweet factory with asphalt?" Lestrade asked.
"No. No – no – no. Too general. Need something more specific. Chalk, chalky clay – that's a far thinner band of geology," Sherlock said, shaking his head and thinking about a map of London.
"Brick dust?" Lestrade guessed.
"Building site. Bricks from the nineteen fifties."
Lestrade rubbed his face in despair. "There's thousands of building sites in London," he complained. Sherlock looked exasperated at the distraction.
"I've got people out looking," he told Lestrade.
"So have I."
"Homeless network – faster than the police," Sherlock said, then gave Lestrade a snide smile. "Far more relaxed about taking bribes."
Anderson, who was sitting at a nearby desk, looked up and rolled his eyes at Sherlock. Elspeth gave him a dark look.
"John," Sherlock said, holding his phone up to show John an image. "Rhododendron ponticum. It matches. Addlestone."
"What?" Lestrade asked.
"There's a mile of disused factories between the river and the park. It matches everything," Sherlock replied, grabbing hold of Elspeth's wrist and hurrying out of the office with John in hot pursuit.
"Right, come on," Lestrade said to his team. They hesitated. "Come on!"
They found the kids. They were both alive, but the little boy was unconscious and taken to intensive care while his sister, Claudette, was brought back to the police station so Sherlock could talk to her. The moment she saw him, however, she started to scream hysterically, scrambling in her seat to get away from him.
"Makes no sense," John murmured. He, Sherlock and Elspeth had been bundled into a different office so they could calm Claudette down. Sherlock gazed out of the window.
"The kid's traumatized. Something about Sherlock reminds her of the kidnapper," Lestrade said. Sally looked at Sherlock thoughtfully.
"So what's she said?"
"Hasn't uttered another syllable," Sally said.
"And the boy?" John asked.
"No, he's unconscious, still in intensive care."
Elspeth, who had been perching on the edge of the desk, slid down to her feet and crossed the office to stand by Sherlock, looking out the window with him. In the building opposite, all the lights in the offices turned on, revealing the three letters that had been spray painted on: I O U. Seconds later, the lights went out.
Frowning, Elspeth looked up at Sherlock. He continued to stare at the windows, his eyes wide.
"Well, don't let it get to you. I always feel like screaming when you walk into a room! In fact, so do most people," Lestrade tried to joke. "Come on."
He, John and a reluctant Elspeth left the office. Sally stayed behind as Sherlock turned away from the window.
"Brilliant work you did, finding those kids from just a footprint. It's really amazing."
"Thank you."
"Unbelievable," Sally said pointedly. Sherlock hesitated for a moment, then strode out of the office. He didn't say anything as he left Scotland Yard with John and Elspeth in tow, ignoring the worried looks that John sent his way.
John raised his hand, hailing a cab. "You ok?" he asked Sherlock.
"Thinking."
The taxi pulled up and Elspeth opened the door, climbing in before Sherlock could stop her. "You can get the next one," he told John, who frowned.
"Why?"
"You might talk," Sherlock said, climbing in and shutting the door behind him. The taxi pulled away, leaving John to stare after it in disbelief. "Don't talk," Sherlock told Elspeth.
"Why –"
"Don't," Sherlock snapped. Elspeth gave him an indignant look, rolling her eyes when he ignored her, and shifted in her seat so she was gazing out of the window.
Partway through the journey, the TV screen on the back of the driver's seat switched on, and an advertisement started to play.
"Can you turn this off, please?" Sherlock asked. The driver didn't respond. "Can you turn this off?" Sherlock repeated angrily. Elspeth, whose head had been resting against the window, looked up as the screen started to fritz, like another channel was breaking through. There were momentary glimpses of a figure before the advert disappeared completely.
"Hello," Jim Moriarty said, sitting in front of a pale blue wall with white fluffy clouds floating across it. Elspeth stared at the screen. "Are you ready for the story? This is the story of Sir Boast-a-lot."
Sherlock looked at the TV screen, his expression intense. Elspeth shrunk in her seat slightly. She felt sick.
"Sir Boast-a-lot was the bravest and cleverest knight at the Round Table, but soon the other knights began to grow tired of his stories about how brave he was and how many dragons he'd slain –" Behind Moriarty, the pale blue sky got darker. The white clouds turned grey. "– and soon they began to wonder –" The clouds started to rain. "– 'Are Sir-Boast-a-lot's stories even true'?" Moriarty shook his head. "Oh no."
Swallowing, Elspeth rubbed her sweaty palms against her jeans. She wanted to look away from the screen, away from Moriarty's eyes that were dark and terrifying, even on the screen. She couldn't look away though.
"So one of the knights went to King Arthur and said –" Moriarty lowered his voice to a dramatic whisper. "– 'I don't believe Sir Boast-a-lot's stories. He's just a big old liar who makes things up to make himself look good.'"
She looked at Sherlock. He was staring at the screen still.
"And then even the King began to wonder," Moriarty continued, raising a finger to his mouth and gazing off to the side with a wondering look on his face. "But that wasn't the end of Sir Boast-a-lot's problem. No. That wasn't the final problem."
The camera pulled back, showing Moriarty sitting with a storybook in his hands. He looked up and smiled.
"The end," he sung. Behind him, a red velvet curtain dropped as if covering a theatre stage. The shot and focused on a close up shot of Moriarty grinning manically. The screen fritzed again and eventually returned to the jewellery advert.
"I'm going to be sick," Elspeth whispered.
"Stop the cab," Sherlock said. "Stop the cab!" he repeated frantically. The taxi pulled up by a nearby cab. Elspeth hurtled out of it, just making it to the bushes before she was horribly sick, the acidic taste burning her throat.
Jumping out, Sherlock ran forwards to the driver's door.
"What was that?" he demanded. The cabbie turned his head towards Sherlock.
"No charge," Moriarty told him. "Get well soon, Ellie!" he called as the cab accelerated away. Sherlock, desperate, tried to grab hold of the cab door and stop it, but he was forced to let go. He tried chasing it. The cab sped away.
"Dad!" Elspeth screamed suddenly. As the car hurtling towards Sherlock sounded its horn in warning, someone crashed into Sherlock, pulling him out of danger.
The car roared past them and Sherlock realised what had happened, breathing heavily. The man who had pulled him out of danger watched him warily. Elspeth leaned against the fence, catching her breath and almost sobbing with relief.
"Thank you," Sherlock said, also catching his breath. He held his hand out for the man to shake. The moment their hands touched, three bullets were fired at the man in quick succession from somewhere behind Sherlock. The man slumped to the ground, Elspeth screamed until she covered her mouth with both hands, and Sherlock looked around to find the source of the gunshots.
"Sherlock!" John cried, jumping out of his cab. He saw the man on the ground. "Oh my God, are you alright?" Hurrying forwards, he saw Elspeth shaking and rushed to her side. "Ellie, breathe," he reminded her, standing in front of her and rubbing his hands up and down her arms to stop her shaking. "Sherlock, call an ambulance!"
"That . . . it's him," John said, standing next to a fretful Sherlock. Both of them watched as the ambulance crew wheeled away the body. Elspeth was being attended to by another paramedic, a shock blanket wrapped around her shoulders. "It's him. Sulejmani or something. Mycroft showed me his file. He's a big Albanian gangster lives two doors down from us."
"He died because I shook his hand," Sherlock said quietly. He looked over at Elspeth. She was sitting in the ambulance doorway, staring into space with wide eyes.
"What do you mean?"
"He saved my life, but he couldn't touch me," Sherlock said. He frowned. "Why?"
Thank you WerewolfHybrid13, xxxMadameMysteryxxx, GeorgyannWayson, TheTenthDoctorIsMyGuardian, tardislover1, ElisePotterFreak, dustdancingintheflickerlight, iwanttobeaneverdeen, Starcrier, Bookworm45669, Ms Moonshoes Potter, SJBHasADayPass, LoverofWords22, Cassandra, thestargazer7, ElizabethCullen08, Tollandm, Adrillian1497, Tayla, Goodbye Mr Holmes, nakari ash and ToastedPanda for reviewing!
So I think everyone wants a prequel . . . the first chapter is being worked on right now!
We're coming up to the fall . . . yikes. I think that rather than make a huge long fic, this one will end shortly after the fall and then I'll write a sequel for series 3 and (drum roll please) write my own series 4 because it won't be back for another 2 years. Does that sound alright?
