And here is Part Two or, as I call it...Chapter Fifty-Eight. ;)

Two updates in one day! I've outdone myself. :)

Chapter Fifty-Eight

Molly had to get up very early the next morning and go home, to change into her work clothes, and still be at the hospital by eight o'clock for her Early shift. She tried to slip out without waking Sherlock but he was such a light sleeper. He insisted on getting up and making her a cup of tea, while she used the bathroom and got dressed, then made her sit down and drink it before allowing her to leave.

'Are you going to be alright?' she asked, as they exchanged parting kisses.

'Yes, I'll be fine,' he assured her – though she wasn't terribly assured since 'I'm fine' was his default position, even when he was half-dead. 'I've got lots to be getting on with,' he declared, mentally scanning his to-do list – book three return airline tickets to Edinburgh, hire an electric car… He kissed Molly goodbye for the umpteenth time and watched through the sitting room window as she hurried off towards the Tube station.

As she disappeared from view, swallowed up by the morning rush of commuters, he remembered all those carrots, just begging to be analysed. Of course, they were still at Molly's house, as was his microscope. He didn't necessarily need that for this particular set of experiments. But a spectrometer would be very handy and he knew exactly where he could find one of those…

He determined to wait until after the rush hour, pop over to Molly's, pick up his carrots and make his way to St Bart's, whereupon he would find an out-of-the-way corner of the Pathology lab in which to work, where he wouldn't be noticed and no one would get in his way...or on his nerves.

ooOoo

Mycroft and Alicia faced one another across the breakfast table. They had barely spoken the night before, for the simple expedient that Lady S saw no point in trying to conduct a serious conversation with someone who was inebriated. She had advised Mycroft to take himself off to bed and 'sleep it off' and he had, very wisely, acquiesced.

But she had not been idle.

She had instructed Wilder to take every bottle, flask, carafe, jug and decanter in the flat which contained so much as a drop of alcohol and place it in the 'wine cellar', which was actually a large pantry just off the kitchen, and lock the door. She then took charge of the key. She had already been required to bury one husband, due to pointless self-indulgence on his part. She wasn't about to lose another one, especially when she hadn't even walked him down the aisle, yet.

Being the sort of person who confronted the tough issues head-on, there would be no procrastination. She had already made a phone call and set wheels in motion. The day of reckoning was now.

However, first things first…

'Has that unfortunate matter been dealt with?' she enquired.

'It has,' Mycroft replied, his voice heavy with contrition, 'and I have instructed that all data collected be permanently destroyed. There was nothing incriminating, anyway…'

'I do not wish to know anything about any data gathered,' she cut in, sharply, but nodded her approval of his foresight. That would have been her second question so she appreciated his anticipation of it.

'I've been considering my options,' she began.

Mycroft took a nervous gulp of water and waited to hear his fate.

'I've decided not to stand you down…'

He gasped his relief. It was his greatest fear and worst nightmare to be relieved of his duties. It would have been the ultimate humiliation but, even worse, the inactivity would have killed him. Sherlock was not the only Holmes for whom boredom was a bête noir.

'…however, we cannot ignore the fact that your judgement is seriously flawed, at present, so I can't allow you to continue taking decisions at an executive level, for the time being.'

Mycroft's relief had been short-lived. His raison d'etre was making judgements and taking executive decisions. If he couldn't do either of those things, what exactly could he do?

'So, until further notice, I must insist that you run all executive decisions past me before giving instructions. I appreciate that this will not be easy or straightforward but it's my bottom line.'

She held his gaze, steady and unwavering. He knew that look. There was to be no negotiation. This was the deal, take it or leave it. Mycroft took it. He gave a short, sharp nod of the head.

'I intend to take Anthea into our confidence. She's your usual point of interface so, to all intents and purposes, it will be business as usual. But she will run everything past me that she deems necessary.'

Mycroft nodded again. He appreciated this small courtesy. It would be a private arrangement between him, Alicia and Anthea. No one else would be any the wiser.

'However, there is a caveat,' she added.

He knew there would be.

'I've been in communication with the head of our Psychology team. You have an appointment, this afternoon at 3 pm, with Eve Matthews. It will take place in your office, as your meetings usually do, so it won't arouse any suspicion.'

Mycroft was grateful for that, too. Alicia was going out of her way to preserve his reputation within the service so she must believe his career could be salvaged. Which was rather more than he had, for the past several hours. He'd barely slept a wink, fearing the worst.

'Alicia, I…'

'Don't thank me, Mycroft. I'm not doing this for you…well, not just for you.'

She sighed in exasperation.

'I still have faith in you, despite you having none in me when you cancelled my security clearance, had me arrested, right there in Reception at MI6, and carted me off to the Interrogation Suite.'

Mycroft knew that was still a sore point with Alicia and he didn't blame her for bringing it up, in the present situation.

'But I have forgiven you because I know that you were acting in what you thought, at the time, was the best interests of our sovereign state.' She paused to let that sink in. 'As I have told you many times before, this country needs your skills – more now than at any time I can think of…in my lifetime, at least – so I'm prepared to do whatever it takes to save you from yourself. But I can't do it alone. I must insist on your full commitment and unquestioning co-operation. Do I make myself clear?'

'Yes, Alicia, you do. And thank you. Thank you so much for standing by me.' His voice cracked on the last few words and he dropped his chin to his chest, fighting for control of his emotions.

'I have appraised Eve of the situation,' Alicia went on, resisting the temptation to comfort him. Right now, she was his boss, not his helpmate. 'She knows about Rudi, of course, and Eurus. And she's carrying out an assessment of Edwin to see if anything can be salvaged there…though, quite frankly, I think he's entirely beyond help…so I want your assurance that, whatever she recommends, you will follow her advice to the letter.'

She waited for his response.

'I will, of course,' he replied. He wanted this sorted as much as, if not more than, she did. He really did not like the person he seemed to have become. 'You have my solemn word.'

'Good,' she nodded, brusquely. 'Now, I'm sure it hasn't escaped your notice that there is no alcohol anywhere to hand in this flat.'

It hadn't.

'We are going to nip any tendency you might have toward alcohol dependency in the bud. From today, we are dry,' she declared. 'I wouldn't be so insensitive as to drink in front of you and, frankly, I think it will do us both the world of good to abstain for a month or two. We can say we're doing it for charity. I might even get my PA to run up a sponsorship form and we can rinse a few of the guzzlers in the Palace of Westminster, all slurping away in the subsidised bars and restaurants, at the tax-payers' expense. In fact, to hell with 'might', I'm doing it. We'll do a sponsored sobriety and donate the proceeds to War Child.'

It was Alicia's favourite charity. How could Mycroft refuse? And, of course, by making their abstinence public knowledge, it would preclude any sneaky tippling outside the home

'Right. Are we finished, here? Is there anything I've missed?'

'No, my dear. As always, I believe you've thought of everything.'

'Good…'

'However, I do have a request, if you would be so kind.'

She pursed her lips and eyed him with suspicion.

'Well, it was something Sherlock suggested, actually,' which was quite true but, also, he thought she might be more inclined to grant a favour to his brother than to himself, given the current circumstances.

'Spit it out, then,' she snapped. She was still really angry with him but trying to be business-like.

'It concerns our mother. Sherlock wondered if she might be eligible for a debrief at the state's expense, even though Rudi was her brother?'

Alicia frowned. Rudi was a servant of the state but it was a bit of a stretch to suggest that his own sister was entitled to any reparations…but then, Rudi had stolen the woman's daughter and the state had benefitted hugely from that little arrangement. And it wasn't so much the cost that was critical, as the skillset. One would be hard pressed to find a psychologist outside of the military or the intelligence community with the required expertise to deprogramme someone so thoroughly indoctrinated as Mrs Holmes. God knows, she might even prove to be a test case.

'Speak to Eve when you see her, this afternoon. If she deems it appropriate, I won't object. What about Sherlock? He clearly needs help, too.'

Alicia had been deeply affected by Sherlock's panic attack, the previous afternoon, and although Molly had texted to let her know he was OK, she was all too aware that this was a relative term.

'I offered,' Mycroft replied. 'He refused. I believe he's making his own arrangements.'

'Of course, he is,' she nodded. She expected nothing less.

ooOoo

Molly made it to St Bart's with only minutes to spare. Taking the lift to the Pathology Department and depositing her personal belongings in her locker, she donned a clean, white lab coat and made her way to the Path lab suite. A couple of staff members who were already in situ exchanged greetings with her as she stood in front of the rack of clipboards, each with a job ticket attached. Left over from yesterday's Late shift, Molly presumed there was nothing urgent. She lifted the boards out of their pockets, one by one, read the ticket and then wrote up on the white board which member of staff should deal with which particular task.

Once she had assigned all the pending tasks to one or other of the lab technicians, she took the lift to the basement and entered the mortuary. There she found another rack of clip boards, each one pertaining to a resident of the cold store. There were quite a few. In fact, every drawer was occupied and, she noted, a couple of recently deceased had been taken to one of their sister hospitals for storage, due to lack of drawer space.

Molly hated it when that happened. It was always hard on the families, learning that their loved one had been transported across London in a black ambulance to another hospital mortuary. It just seemed so dehumanising and disrespectful, even though she had complete faith in the commitment of the staff involved to afford the dead every dignity.

Checking the paperwork on each of the clip boards, she noted that only two post mortems were scheduled for this morning. One was due to the sudden death at home of a man who had only just turned forty. The other was a rough sleeper who had been found dead in her sleeping bag by another rough sleeper, the previous morning. There had been a hard frost on Saturday night, Molly recalled. The opening of extra Local Authority night shelters was triggered by a forecast of three consecutive nights of frost but Saturday's frost had been an isolated one-night event so no extra beds were made available.

Molly cautioned herself not to jump to conclusions. It may not have been hypothermia that brought this woman's life to a premature end. The truth would be determined by the work she did in the next few hours. She decided to perform the post mortem of the homeless woman first, since she had been waiting the longest, and took herself off to the changing room to get suited up in scrubs.

As it transpired, it was neglect that caused the early demise of Dawn. That was the name attributed to the rough sleeper by the person who found her dead and informed the authorities. No surname, unfortunately, which would make it hard to identify her and inform her next of kin - but not impossible.

Of course, 'neglect' would not be written on the death certificate. The cause of death would be registered as 'Heart Failure' but it was a whole sequence of events and circumstances, going back years and years, that had led to this woman's heart being damaged so severely that it had just ceased to beat, worn out by the harsh realities of Dawn's foreshortened life.

Having removed and examined all of Dawn's internal organs and taken samples of blood and tissue, Molly replaced those organs inside her body, as close as possible to their original positions, and carefully sewed her back up again – along the Y-incision in her torso and around the hair line of her scalp. She then handed Dawn over into the care of one of the mortuary attendants, to wash her thoroughly, from head to toe and dress her in a white mortuary gown before returning her to the cold store drawer, where she would await her fate.

Molly didn't usually photograph the bodies she autopsied, unless the circumstances of their death were suspicious, in which case photographic records of the condition of the body were vital pieces of evidence. But she ordered a photo to be taken of Dawn, once she was bathed and her hair had been washed and combed through, to be used for comparison with National Missing Persons Database, in the hope that a match might be found. She also ordered x-rays to be taken of her dentition, so that in the event of a possible match being found, dental records might be used to verify her identity. A DNA analysis would also be carried out, another possible means by which Dawn might one day be reunited with her family. All that was left to do, then, was to process the tissue samples, write up the report and sign the Death Certificate.

As Molly was peeling off her surgical gloves and dropping them into the clinical waste bin, Parmina – one of the lab technicians – arrived to collect Dawn's samples, take them up to the Path lab and begin to process them. They exchanged greetings and asked each other if they'd had a good weekend, both giving fairly stock responses…

'Lovely, thanks. And you?'

'Yes, great, thanks.'

'I'm just going to drop these off at the lab and go for my coffee break,' Parmina informed Molly. 'How about you?'

Molly looked at the clock on the mortuary wall and pursed her lips.

'No, better not. I've got another PM to do and then two reports to write, but thanks for asking.'

'Can I bring you something from the canteen?' The staff were all well aware that Molly often skipped her breaks in order to keep on top of the work load.

'I could murder a latte,' Molly replied, with a grateful smile.

'No problem,' Parmina replied, and exited the mortuary with her tray of tissue samples. Molly went into the changing room to strip off one set of scrubs and get kitted out in another, before performing the second post mortem of the day – on the forty-year-old man.

She was just completing her visual examination of the man's body – the first stage of any post mortem examinations before one even thought about picking up a scalpel – when Parmina appeared, carrying her latte.

'Oh, thank you so much!' Molly exclaimed, replacing the sheet over the man's body and stepping away from the examination table to accept her drink. But then she was struck by the expression on Parmina's face. 'What's happened?' she asked. 'What's the matter?'

Parmina looked down at the floor and then at the wall – anywhere but at Molly – and taking a folded sheet of paper from her lab coat pocket, she held it out for Molly to take, saying,

'I'm so sorry, Molly, but I think you should look at this. I don't know who's done this but they're on all the notice boards, all over this wing of the hospital…'

Molly took the piece of paper, with a puzzled frown, and opened it up, turning it the right way up - since she had it upside down - and looking at it.

With a sharp intake of breath, she put a hand to her mouth.

Enlarged to fill the whole of the A4 sheet, was a close-up 'head and shoulders' image – obviously taken outside the Farmers' Market on Saturday – of Sherlock greeting her with that tender kiss. And as if that in itself wasn't bad enough, in bold red letters across the top of the page, above Sherlock's head, was printed, 'User' and across the bottom of the page, below the image of her, was printed, 'Loser'.

'I'm so sorry, Molly, but I assumed you hadn't seen them and I really thought you should know,' Parmina stammered, squirming with discomfiture.

'No, don't be sorry,' Molly mumbled, struggling to organise her thoughts. 'No, I'm very grateful to you for bringing this to my attention. I…' Her words petered out into a stunned silence.

'But don't worry!' Parmina exclaimed. 'I've had a word with the porters and they are going all over the wing, ripping them down. They'll probably all be gone by now.'

'Oh, thank you! Thank you so much. And thank them, too. I really don't know what…'

'But that's not all…' added Parmina, her expression warning of worse to come.

Molly stared blankly at the lab technician. What else could there possibly be?

'You're not on Facebook, are you?'

Molly shook her head.

Parmina reached into her pocket and took out her smart phone, opening it up at the hospital Facebook page and handing it to Molly so she could see the screen.

A video was playing which showed her and Sherlock outside Chelsea Barracks Farmers' Market, meeting in the square and kissing, then him taking her hand and the two of them walking into the market. The short clip was on a loop, repeating over and over, and the soundtrack was a rendition of the song 'Why do fools fall in love'. A caption underneath read:

'Molly the Mortuary Mouse being taken for a ride – again – by the Internet Tec who doesn't give a feck. He's just using you, Molly! It's for a case!' and then a row of emojis, including 'crying with laughter', 'eye roll', face palm' and, finally, 'clown'.

'Oh, my god!' Molly gasped. 'Who...who would do this?'

'Some evil bitch, that's who!' Parmina snorted, no longer embarrassed but angry - furious, in fact, on Molly's behalf. 'We can get this removed, though,' she assured her. 'We just have to contact the moderator and get them to take it down. I'll do it now.'

She took back the phone and began typing, rapidly, with both thumbs. She did this for about a minute then closed the phone and put it back in her pocket.

'They should take it down, now,' she advised. 'But…' She looked really apologetic.

'But what?' Molly asked.

'If people have already copied and shared it, it could be all over the Internet by now – not just Facebook but Twitter, WhatsApp, Instagram, Pinterest…'

'Oh, god…' Molly gasped again, cut to the quick by an overwhelming sense of hurt and outright injustice, that someone would do such a mean-spirited thing - to anyone, not just to her. Tears pricked her eyes and she blinked rapidly to try and keep them at bay but they were having none of it. They welled in her lower lids, overflowed and trickling down her cheeks, in silent despair. 'Sherlock must not see this!' she choked.

'See what?' came a velvety smooth baritone voice from the direction of the mortuary doors.

Molly and Parmina whipped around to see Sherlock striding towards them, his facial expression showing only piqued curiosity until he saw Molly's face. And the tears.

'What's going on?' he demanded, hastening to close the gap between them and taking Molly by the upper arms, searching her features, intently, as if the answer to his question could be found there. 'What's happened?' he insisted, his tone softened by concern, pulling Molly into a protective hug and pressing his face into her neck. 'Who's upset you?' he entreated, in the gentlest of murmurs.

It was Parmina who provided the answer, in the end, since Molly was too upset to comply. She picked up the A4 paper that Molly had dropped on the floor and held it up so Sherlock could see it. He reached out and took it with one hand, whilst still comforting Molly with the other, and his brow beetled as he scrutinised the image. Having noted and catalogued every detail, he crumpled the page in his fist and thrust it into his coat pocket, returning his attention to consoling Molly.

'There's this, as well, said Parmina, showing him the Facebook entry, which hadn't yet been taken down. 'I've told the moderator to take it down,' she advised him.

'No!' he exclaimed. 'Not yet! I need a copy of that. Do you have contact transfer on your phone?' he asked.

Parmina was so flummoxed by his abrupt manner, she could only gape at him, like a landed fish.

'Never mind. Just…' He whisked the phone from her hand and, with an arm still wrapped around Molly, tapped furiously at Parmina's key pad, sending a copy of the video to his own phone.

'Thank you,' he said, smiling graciously as he handed Parmina's phone back to her.

Parmina, who had never even spoken to Sherlock before this day, and regarded him as a rather strange and exotic creature from another dimension, was quite star struck at being addressed by him so directly. She just stood there, grinning inanely, and blushing from the roots of her hair t the tips of her toes. She was completely Sherlocked.

But he had already turned his attention back to Molly.

'Don't worry,' he assured her. 'I'll find out who did this and they will wish they had never been born…'

'No!' Molly exclaimed, shaken out of her funk by the fear of what he might do when he found the culprits. 'Sherlock, please, don't do anything that will get you into trouble. This is bullying in the workplace. HR can deal with it.'

Just at that moment, the doors to the mortuary flew open again and two porters barged in, each carrying a sheaf of A4 papers.

'We think we got them all,' the first man announced then pulled up short, taking in the scene - of Sherlock Holmes, the 'User', allegedly, hugging Molly, the 'Loser' to his chest. 'We think we got them all,' he repeated, lamely.

Sherlock reached out and took the sheaf of paper from his hand, thanking him, politely. The other porter handed over his collection, too.

'I'm immensely grateful to you gentlemen,' Sherlock intoned. 'Now, could one of you please direct me to your IT department?'

'Let me take you there,' the second porter insisted, clearly Sherlocked, too.

Sherlock turned back to Molly.

'Don't worry, I won't kill anyone. Though, by the time I'm done with them, they may consider death to be the preferred option.'

Then he kissed her, sweetly and tenderly, before turning on his heels and following the porters from the room.

Parmina watched him go, open-mouthed, then turned to Molly and asked,

'Are you OK?'

'Yes,' Molly assured her. 'Just a bit…shocked, that's all, to think that anyone would do something like this.'

'Unfortunately, there are some jealous bitches in this place,' Parmina replied. 'Believe me, this might be a hospital but not everyone who works here is an angel. But…' she added, with a mischievous grin, 'if that's being taken for a ride, buy me a bloody ticket!'

ooOoo

Those of you familiar with my AU Sherlolly Saga will have recognised a name in this update. Why couldn't she exist in both Universes, I asked myself? And decided she could. :)