"I have learned that if you must leave a place that you have lived in and loved and where all your yesteryears are buried deep, leave it any way except a slow way, leave it the fastest way you can. Never turn back and never believe that an hour you remember is a better hour because it is dead. Passed years seem safe ones, vanquished ones, while the future lives in a cloud, formidable from a distance."
Beryl Markham
John
Sherlock leaves the table to clean up Josie and change her into fresh clothes from the diaper-bag. John stays behind with Katie who slipped into a nap. He looks down at her with a fond smile. She's going to wake up as soon as he will move and he will have to move to dress her up in that awful, fluffy romper so they can leave.
He isn't sure what should happen next though. On one hand they need a second car-seat and badly on that. On the other he needs to have a long overdue conversation with a certain pathologist. And if he had a third hand to spare, he would just go back to the flat to pack up his things because at the rate Josie is going and how laid-back Sherlock is about her getting dirty, they will need more clothes. Blessedly Katie and Josie fit the same size from what he saw so until they have a chance to get more things for Josie, she can wear Katie's.
As he goes over the conversation which they just had he realises that he never explicitly stated during the course of it that he would move back to Baker Street. He listened though to Sherlock plan to remodel it with interest and small dose of apprehension.
This was Sherlock, a week after John beat him into a pulp, not even a few hours after he learned that John's lying, backstabbing, murderous wife killed his daughter and rather than taking Josie and running as far away from him as it was humanly possible he was making plans to include John and his daughter into his new life with his granddaughter. As if nothing happened, as if John's presence at Baker Street was essential to his contentment. No doubts, no second thoughts, just hardcore – if theoretical at the time – nesting. And John kept pushing him because he wanted to know what were Sherlock's limits.
Sherlock didn't have any. The Work? Let's renovate C and turn it into lab/office space. Lack of space? There's space, it just needs some work and a lot of heavy lifting. He was even willing to give up his own bedroom without a fuss because having the girls in en suite would be more practical.
No hesitation whatsoever, just 'come to live with us.
And John wanted to say yes immediately because Baker Street is still a home for him even though he only lived there for about a year and a half, plus the few months he spent there after Mary shot Sherlock. In overall he lived at his own flat for twice as long and it still was just a flat rather than home.
But he couldn't say yes, not immediately, not without making Sherlock see how frayed their relationship was, how much damage they caused to each other. The conversation that followed brought Sherlock to tears, the real tears that he tried to hide rather than show and blamed on pollens out of all things.
At least Sherlock agreed to therapy and he desperately needs one, John knows that now. Because if something that was supposed to be a three months assignment had stretched into over twenty-eight months and ended with an extraction by Mycroft of all people it had to be bad.
John didn't spend three years in Afghanistan working in black ops but after Moran the command decided that it was handy to have him as a backup if one was required. Especially once James saw…
He shakes his head. He learned from autopsy that you cannot save someone who doesn't want to be saved and you can't help someone who doesn't want to be helped. He got over it, it took him a while but he got over it. The invitation to his wedding wasn't a courtesy extended to his commanding officer but an attempt to prove a point to one stubborn, closed off bugger that things can change if you let people in.
After he was discharged, he tried to reach out to James who was medically discharged mere six months before him but he hit a wall with him. He kept trying but with his own setting depression and overwhelming lack of anything, from support to purpose, he just gave up. He had given up on everything so much that if his paths hadn't cross with Sherlock when they did, he would most likely die by his own hand before the year of 2010 was out.
It took Sherlock Holmes to get over James Sholto and it took Mary Bloody Morstan to even attempt to rebuilt his life from the wreckage that Sherlock's death left behind.
And now he is back to where he had been six years ago. Life that he knew, the lie that he built with his assassin wife is in ruins. Once again, he is a poor sod that the neighbours (if they bothered at all) pity when they see him. And once more Sherlock Holmes is willing to change his life for him, even at the cost of his own.
But this time he will have to be braver because life just doesn't throw you third chances if you screw up first two. This time he will have to show Sherlock that he is important, not due to his work but due to who he is. He will have to prove to him that he is loved and cherished and that if he wants to then he will be loved and cherished for the rest of his life.
"What's going on?" Sherlock's voice tears him from his thoughts.
"Just thinking," he sighs and he smiles softly at Sherlock who is holding freshly changed Josie that's pulling at his hair.
Sherlock quirks his left eyebrow at him, prompting him to elaborate.
"Remodelling the kitchen," he says dryly.
"What's wrong with it?" asks Sherlock suspiciously as he sits down. "Everything is fine."
"Everything is fine for two bachelors who don't mind a cooker with a wonky burner on the stove. Everything is fine for two bachelors even if one of them has a burning passion for not cleaning dishes after himself. Storage space in there is also fine for two bachelors. Also, you can take that fridge to the lab because the only dead meat that would be going into the new one would be the one that's considered edible by general population," John counts out.
"Why do you need to remodel whole kitchen though?" asks Sherlock. "All you need is a new cooker, new fridge and a dishwasher."
"Consider it a courtesy to our long-suffering landlady for putting up with us and two soon to be toddlers," replies John. "Plus, we really need storage space."
"I can practically see the island in the middle of the kitchen," mutters Sherlock and shakes his head.
"More counter and storage spaces," John points out.
"Kitchen table," says Sherlock.
"Small, low, slightly rickety, had been through a lot. And what's wrong with an island in the middle of the kitchen?" he asks.
"What isn't?" sighs Sherlock. "It's a symbol of status, an illusion of luxury that's sold to people to clutter the kitchen space and remove the family life from it."
"If one will let it leave the kitchen," says John dryly. "Anyway, we will need more counter space. Tell you what, I'll leave terrorising the designer to you as long as we're getting a dishwasher. Can be small as long as it's not crappy and easy to operate."
In response Sherlock blinks. Once. Twice. Thrice. Then he smiles in that slightly crooked smile that means that he's up to something.
John should be worried but he cannot bring himself to bother. Sherlock isn't a big fan of changes and the only thing to make him feel better about changes is giving him control over it.
"Why would I need to terrorise a designer if I can do it myself?" he asks simply.
"When did you learn how to design a kitchen?" asks John curiously.
"One of the summers while I was doing bachelor degree," answers Sherlock. "I failed a spontaneous drug test that Mycroft foisted on me. It was one of his stipulations for me to get regular access to the trust fund. I didn't really need it, I had stipends and I earned any additional money I needed by doing detective work, mostly on cheating spouses. That's why I'm so sick of it now. People change, their motivations and behaviour don't. But if I told Mycroft to stuff it, he could make even that difficult for me so I accepted them. What was truly ironic about it was that instead of simply getting high the day before that I gorged on a poppy-seed cake from the bakery. But that explanation wasn't getting to Mummy or Mycroft and they wanted to send me to rehab, one of those old mansions that got turned into a rehab clinic. If you saw one, you saw them all. Some of them are actually successful but…" he grimaces. "Daddy offered an alternative in the form of spending the summer working with him and the local carpenter. I still had to pass mandatory drug tests and any failed one would send me to rehab but it was better than rehab. Physical work wore me down and mental one was stimulating enough for me to not need additional stimulants. Plus, I got to work with Daddy…" he pauses.
John waits for him to continue.
"You saw enough of them to glimpse what kind of people they are," sighs Sherlock. "Mummy means well but…" he grimaces "she tends to be overbearing and obnoxiously talkative. If it was anything remotely relevant or interesting it wouldn't be so bad. She's a mathematician with interest in physics but I never managed to get her to talk about her intellectual interests no matter how hard I tried to steer a conversation that way. What she'll actually want to talk with you is mindless gossip or what Daddy lost this time…" he grimaces again. "She always had been like that; she's caring and loving underneath but there always comes a certain point when it's too much."
"And your father was always her exact opposite," nods John.
"Not exact, they have similar interests but unlike her, Daddy was quiet. He didn't prompt you to talk when you didn't want to but he made you feel that you could if you wanted to. After the accident, whatever it was caused by, I didn't talk for over a year and I was oversensitive to certain noises, I couldn't stand the chatter for too long. So, I spent a lot of time hiding in Daddy's shed. I liked to watch him work. For me, back then, he talked the right amount which was little to none and never about nonsense stuff like whose daughter went out with whom and why," answers Sherlock slowly.
"I never saw you doing any carpentry around the flat," admits John.
"Strictly speaking it wasn't carpentry," shrugs Sherlock. "Measuring, heavy lifting, listening to idiots and putting stuff together. The most important thing about it was that it got me out of the house where I would constantly have to be under Mummy's watchful eye. Also, back then Daddy was smoking so I could always pilfer one or two from him."
Breaking Badly
After lunch they end up at the flat even though John intended to head to Bart's first and foremost because the confrontation with Molly wasn't something that could wait. But Katie spilled some juice on herself in the car, Sherlock then muttered something about running out of clothes making John miss the right turn and they just found themselves heading in the direction of the flat.
I would have to do it today eventually, mussed John to himself when he realised that/.
He leaves Sherlock with the girls in the living-room before he picks the suitcases and heads to the bedroom to start packing. Only once his clothes are gone from the dressers, he looks at the suitcases and around the room.
It's a depressing sight. He's nearly forty-five years old, he hadn't been in the army for six and a half years and his entire life still fits into two big suitcases. Downstairs in the living-room is his laptop and some books he would like to bring but at the moment they aren't his top priority. He'll have to come back for them later, Katie's furniture too but for now she can share with Josie the portable cot in which she was sleeping while she and John stayed at Baker Street.
He picks the remaining suitcase and heads to the nursery. Purposely he doesn't pack the stuff which Katie managed to outgrow and that which he hates. To tell the truth he hates the entire thing. The furniture, the colour-scheme. He had no part in arranging it, the room was waiting for Katie's arrival when he moved back home. When asked about it, Mary only shrugged and said that she wasn't sure whatever or not he was going to return at all and that she simply paid some guy to paint it and another to put the furniture together.
Taking it to Baker Street should be a reasonable thing. Money doesn't grow on trees and the furniture is reasonably new enough for Sherlock to hunt down another cot for Josie…
But nearly all of it, with the exception of some sets of clothes and toys bought by John himself, Sherlock, Molly and Mrs H, was Mary's choice. Some other stuff is hand me downs from his colleagues at the clinic but Katie's room, as much as the flat despite being John's is very Mary.
It's revolting.
In packing Katie's stuff, he purposely leaves behind the stuff over which Mary cooed, there isn't a lot of it amongst the things that fit Katie. Mary foresaw the fact that Katie would need bigger clothes and she bought a few pieces before she pulled a runner but most of the stuff that fits Katie now is John's choices or stuff that John received and decided to keep.
That stuff goes into the suitcase, along with Katie's plushies and a few children's books that were gifts too. Once done with packing he takes the new pack of nappies, Mary was the only one who bothered with pulling them out of the pack and storing away separately. When he was leaving in the morning, he stuffed the ones from the old pack into the diaper-bag knowing that he had more than enough of them. For one child.
Once done with the nursery he comes back into the bedroom. He double checks the dressers. Only Mary's stuff is left in them. Then he spots the box.
After Mary died, he hid her jewellery box in her dresser, stuffed underneath her lingerie, out of sight. But the earrings she was wearing when she died as well as her wedding and engagement rings Molly returned to him when he told her that he was planning to cremate Mary. She left the box on the top of the dresser and in the past weeks he couldn't find the strength to place them with the others.
He opens the box slowly; the earrings and her rings are still there. He looks at them, thinking about the moments when he put them on her fingers. During a repeated and uninterrupted engagement dinner and while he was saying the vows.
Their sight is revolting.
He should have thought it through. He should have waited a little while longer before proposing. At the very least he should have asked Sherlock what he thought about Mary before proposing but no, he went with it fearing that if he allowed Sherlock to have a little more control within a few months he would have ended back at Baker Street right where he started and he would be counting minutes until a repeat of Sherlock's fall will happen again.
He slides his wedding ring off his finger and drops it into the box before he slams it shut (as much as one can slam this thing shut).
Funny thing, the ring was so light that in everyday tasks that its weight seemed no existent but the very moment his ring finger is empty again he feels lighter, not exactly better but lighter.
I should have done it the moment I put her in the ground, he thinks to himself. At least now she's going there for good.
He brings the suitcases down, wanting to stop for a moment on the stairs because Katie and Josie are on the floor in the living room playing throw and pick the rattle while Sherlock is snooping in the kitchen. But he knows that if he stops with three suitcases on the stairs he would be risking falling down.
Once he reaches the bottom of the stairs, he puts the suitcases down and takes his time to watch the girls. The game is even, the rattle keeps flying high and wide enough for both to not be hit by it (which is weird because Katie does have a splendid aim). The one that throws it giggles while the other crawls to fetch it. It's endearing.
John smiles to himself, they're going to be fine.
Once he has his fill of sheer cuteness and joy, he heads to the kitchen to check what Sherlock is doing. He's using Katie's basket, in which she takes her afternoon nap while John is usually reading or watching TV on mute, to store away the stuff from the kitchen. Mostly it's Katie's utensils, her bowls, bottles, Sippy-cup, her medicine, but there's also John's RAMC mug in there, both boxes of Aptamil (the new one and the old one) and few jars of fruit mush (the only processed baby food which Katie eats).
"Thanks," he tells him gently.
"I wasn't sure what else you want to take," says Sherlock sheepishly.
"Exactly that," says John as he eyes the contents of the basket.
There's still some room left so he heads to the fridge and picks up the new bottle of milk (because it's always useful), he also takes new jar of jam and some stuff from the salad drawer that could turn bad if he left it for too long. Then he goes for big shopping bag and starts collecting the rest. Heavy stuff ends at the bottom, lighter on the top. He empties the cabinets next, he leaves Mary's fancy tea and coffee tins, he never used them (unless she was around) and picks his tea boxes and a jar of instant coffee.
Once done with the kitchen he heads upstairs to pick up his gym bag and his backpack. He returns with them to the living-room to pack it.
He might come back for the TV and the DVD player later on but he leaves them for now. Instead he puts away his movie collection, purposely bypassing Mary's choices (mostly romantic comedies – she was really selling her retired assassin turned stay at home mum and she actually enjoyed some of them). He mulls over the video from the wedding because it has Mary in it but it also has Sherlock and his speech (and that's worth preserving).
Mary can be edited out of it; he thinks spitefully even if the idea of editing the bride from the wedding video is ridiculous. Later on, most probably he will go with the idea of Mary being barren and Katie being born by a surrogate. Sherlock's birthday video comes next.
"Is that what I think it is?" asks Sherlock from behind his back.
"Yep," John confirms.
"Why are you taking it?" he asks.
"Blackmail material," replies John. "And it's actually funny now that you're here."
"It was ridiculous," mutters Sherlock. "I thought that Greg destroyed it."
"I'm glad that he didn't," quips John and he sighs. "It was true, you know. The paper and what you said about my friends. They disappeared pretty fast once I needed support. The only ones that tried to maintain some contact are still deployed or completely barmy," he adds fondly.
"You are worth it though," says Sherlock simply. "Regardless of what you believe about yourself you are worth fighting for."
"As are you," John says as he turns around.
Sherlock shrugs and looks away to the girls who are now playing tug of war with the rattle.
"When we first met…" Sherlock starts, "and for a longer while after," he pauses. "I was thirty-three and I had been alone for most of my life, my character was set as were my vices," he sighs. "I'm arrogant, I can be obnoxious but…" he pauses again. "You kept holding me to a higher standard and slowly I found myself wanting to meet it. I wanted to become the man you already thought I was. I'm still not that guy but with you around I find it easier. You keep me right, still do and…"
As Sherlock is speaking John puts the bag down and steps towards him. Then gently he places his right hand on Sherlock's left elbow and tugs him in his direction.
"Come here," he says softly as he steps closer and wraps his arms around Sherlock's back.
Sherlock mutely follows, a little startled but he steps closer, leaning forwards slightly as he is wrapping his arms around John's shoulders so John's chin rests on his shoulder.
John takes a deep breath inhaling Sherlock's scent in the process. He isn't wearing any aftershave (because obviously he didn't shave) but he doesn't smell like his usual fancy citrus bodywash either. No, it's a very generic but not unpleasant minty scent of John's shower gel (bottle of which most probably was left behind at Baker Street). Josie had to really keep him on his toes if he used the first thing, he got his hands on. In the past he used to complain about John's preferred brands of shampoos and shower gels like the posh git he was. On several occasions he used freshly purchased items for experiments, John was patient but he finally got him back after the chilli thing in the shower gel with an itchy powder. The conflict most probably would have escalated and lasted more than three days if Mrs H didn't tell them off for using her bathroom while they have a perfectly functioning bathroom upstairs. After that the experiments ceased but not the complaints.
The change is endearing, probably not conscious but still touching.
John shifts his head slightly to the left and allows himself another deep breath with a subtle sniff. Yep, definitely used the shower gel to wash his hair too. Five years ago, he would be moaning and groaning if he didn't have access to his shampoo and conditioner and today while having it, he still bypassed his usual stuff and routines.
With being as focused as he is on breathing in Sherlock and keeping his groin away it takes John a moment to realise that Sherlock's shoulders are shaking slightly.
"It will be okay," he whispers because things aren't okay now.
They will be though because they will be together again.
"We're going to be okay," he adds.
Sherlock
He's tearing up, again. But he can't bring himself to bother because John is leaving this place, John is moving back to Baker Street with his daughter. John is also initiating physical contact to which Sherlock will never say no. He had so little chances to touch John since returning to London that he wants every single contact to last as long as it can. So, he isn't planning to let go until John does and then he will blame his tears on dust or John's aftershave.
Suddenly he fills a tug on the leg of his jeans. He blinks, quickly wipes tears from his eyes and pulls away from John just far enough to look down at the floor.
Josie is holding tightly on his jeans while she's hoisting herself upright. On her left he spies Kate or Katie (he would have to settle with John which version he would prefer) already standing and holding on John's trousers. Ah, the competitiveness at its finest, he smiles to himself.
He makes no effort to stabilise her, the floor is carpeted and Josie has a padded bottom so while not exactly pleasant plopping down won't do her any harm. Her legs are a bit too close to his to make standing easier but she clings to his leg like a little monkey and finally hoists herself upright with a big grin on her face.
Her joy is practically bubbling out of her and she announces happily, "Mama."
Oh.
Daisy lived alone. Josie only had a mother and no one to try a 'dada' on (because he cannot picture Daisy allowing Josie to call Mycroft that).
"Close enough," he tells her as he completely lets go of John in order to bend down to pick her up.
From the corner of his eye he sees John doing the same with his daughter.
"Can you say Dada?" he asks her.
"Mama," Josie says.
"Dada," he repeats.
"Mama," Josie states.
"Dada," he tries again.
"Mama," repeats Josie and this time she's joined by Katie.
He tears his eyes from Josie and look at John in shock. John is smiling softly as he looks from his daughter to Sherlock and Josie.
"Who is that?" he asks Katie as he points at Sherlock.
"Mama," states John's little girl simply.
"And who is that?" John asks as he points at himself.
"Baba," Katie announces.
"Ba ba," he hears Josie's squeal in his ear.
"Not daddy?" he asks John, feeling a little nervous.
"My father was dad," says John simply. "With Katie I always knew that I wanted to be called papa. So, we can go with dada for you and papa for me to not confuse them. For now, let's settle for what we have. We can worry about extending their vocabulary later, Mama."
"I have a beard," mutters Sherlock in protest.
But he cannot exactly argue with the logic of nearly one-year olds, he tries to though while John hands Katie over to him and tells him that he needs to clean up the boot to make place for the suitcases.
The minutes during which John is away he spends at saying dada for every mama that the girls bestow on him. At some point he even attempts to switch, hoping that for every mama he will hear a dada in return but it doesn't work.
He is Mama and will most likely remain Mama for a while.
It could be worse.
After few minutes John returns with a stroller and Sherlock looks at him questioningly.
"It's a single and we need one with two seats," John explains. "Additionally, it's hideous, unstable and has a miniscule shopping basket. Not to mention, Mary chose it and I'm up to here," he waves his hand over his head, "with Mary's choices. It's the highest time for my own although I'm welcome to hearing your opinions on the subject."
"What sort of opinions?" asks Sherlock.
"You know, tandem or side-by-side, umbrella versus full stroller, the usual," answers John.
"I don't exactly have an opinion," says Sherlock. "What's the difference?"
"Why don't you research that while we're on the road," suggests John. "Because we really need a second car-seat."
"Then we should get one," says Sherlock. "For all the talking about car-seats we passed like three shops in which we could get one on the way here."
Breaking Badly
They wind up in one of this all for the baby shops where they can get everything from the much needed second car-seat to, at the moment less needed because we have Katie's travel cot upstairs, nursery furniture.
The car-seats are the first thing they buy. Two of them, because John reasoned out that he will have to upgrade Katie's in few weeks anyway. It's a fancy growing set in a completely not fancy black & grey colour that would see both girls up to 25 kilos so they won't have to exchange them for a longer while.
Once he pays for the car-seats John leaves the shop to install them, leaving Sherlock in front of the display of pushchairs. Apparently installing car-seats takes some time and John doesn't want to do it in hurry.
The display of twin pushchairs isn't big (compared to singles at the very least) but varies in weight of the individual sets as well as hideousness of the décor. The only thing he learned from his quick research on the subject is that for some reason most companies that produce them go for black or something eyesore.
Then there's the dilemma of side-by-side versus tandem. Tandem makes more sense because it will most certainly fit through any door without a problem (as well as check outs) but it also means having one at the front and one at the back which coupled with the girls' competitiveness is a recipe for a fight every time they will head out.
So, side-by-side it will have to be but which one? Should he go for lightweight umbrella pushchair or more sturdy and heavier one?
He needs to ask John about his preferences. So, he only notes his own preference, a side-by-side which seats can recline completely flat, one that fits through standard doorway with ease and comes in purple (other colours too but he likes purple).
Nursery furniture is something they both should agree on although Sherlock himself prefers standard cots without fancy trimmings or in weird shapes, in white or light wood because dark wood would be a bit overwhelming in a room that's not exactly big. Well, it's big enough for him and would be big enough for the girls until they will start school. Plus, white or light wood will fit with the current décor of the room so they won't have to paint it.
Or should they?
He used to smoke in the bedroom (on and off over the years) but it doesn't change the fact that the smoke and the dirt had a chance to get into the walls and wallpaper.
No, they definitely need to paint the nursery (and scrub it clean before painting or hire a guy to do that) and again the colour scheme is something that should be agreed upon because the last time Mary decided everything for herself.
He's still partial to green if John asks. Green goes well with any colour of the wood but he will survive pink if that would be John's choice.
So instead of looking after nursery sets, he takes the girls to clothes section where he gives them a free reign in choosing outfits. Because even though John did get clothes for them after today Sherlock knows that there isn't such a thing as enough clothes with the babies.
Over the course of his trip through clothing side of the business he learns that both girls like yellow stuff, are disinterested in pink stuff and given the choice between pastel pink and pastel blue they prefer pastel blue. Dark blue is treated with a grimace, turquoise regarded with interest and green of any kind is favoured over red. They're both disinterested in skirts and dresses (which is more than fine with Sherlock) although he gets them a fancier looking dress each for their upcoming birthday party. Because he knows that there will be a birthday party even though he's not a big fan of any gatherings.
His cruise through the clothing section is slow and the cart fills in with stuff pretty steadily. He gets them long-sleeved shirts as well as t-shirt, he throws in a few nice and soft looking jumpers each. There are socks and tights and trousers, shoes too, additional pair for Katie because he's planning to get her out of that awful fluffy romper as soon as he will find a suitable jacket or coat for her.
It's by the coats when he realises that John has been gone for an awfully long time. Installing car-seats is not rocket science even though Katie's original car-seat was a bit tricky to install. Even if he had two car-seats to install the second one should take less time to install than the first.
Just as he's reaching for his phone to call John, he spots John walking through the door.
John
As soon as he leaves the shop with the car-seats and he knows that he's out of Sherlock's line of sight he calls Molly.
"John, what's going on?" she asks quickly, there's a hint of worry in her voice.
"I need to talk with you, now," he tells her briskly. "Not over the phone. I have between twenty to forty minutes before Sherlock realises that I've been gone for longer than I should have been."
"John," she sighs.
Instead of clarifying he gives her the address of the nearby café and tells her to be there as fast as she can before he hangs up. Then he calls Greg and asks him to text him photographs of Mary and Daisy. Greg tries to protest but he tells him that he needs them because he needs to question someone.
Once done with that he actually focuses on the task at hand, which is installing the car-seats. The process itself goes far more smoothly than the last time he had to install one so once he's done with them and Katie's old car-seat is stored in the boot he heads to the café and waits for Molly.
She shows up after twenty minutes, slightly breathless and with her hair wild.
"What's going on?" she asks as she practically runs to his table.
Instead of answering John unlocks his phone and slides it over to her. After he finally received the text from Greg with attached image of Mary's photograph, he left it open on the sized-up photograph.
"Why don't you tell me?" he says coldly finally when Molly's eyes fix on the screen.
Molly's legs give out but she has enough grace to fall onto a chair rather than a floor.
"I don't know," she mumbles, her bottom lip is trembling.
"That's a lie," he snorts. "You do know, Doctor Hooper. After all, it's your signature that's on her autopsy report. Which had been filled on 21st November 2015, day after she lost her life to a fatal gunshot in London. Now explain to me how her body with a completely different fatal gunshot wound had ended in County Clare in Ireland nearly seven weeks after her death."
"I don't know," Molly whispers.
"Do I have to treat you like a hostile witness?" he asks icily. "Because I can. At this very moment you're looking up at charges for falsifying the evidence in a murder investigation which while open and shut is still technically a murder even if the victim of said murder wasn't killed when and where everyone believes she was. Then there's being an accessory to conspiracy to commit multiple murders, some of which took place and some of which had been cut short. So, are you going to talk or should I call Greg?" he asks lividly.
"Murders?" Molly whispers.
"A handful of individuals whose names I didn't bother to learn because I focused on the last one and the ones that had failed to come to fruition," he explains. "The murders that concern me the most is the murder of Daisy Holmes and planned murders of Sherlock Holmes and John and Rosamund Watson."
"Murders?" Molly echoes. "John, she loved you. If she did something, she did it for you," she blurts out.
"No," John shakes his head. "She did it for herself, Molly. I don't know what kind of a story she fed you and I don't frankly care because every word that left her mouth was a lie," he adds lividly. "What I care about is my daughter and the man whose daughter she," he jabs his forefinger at the phone, "murdered."
"But Sh…" Molly starts.
"Has had a daughter, one he didn't know about until her own daughter wounded in his care. But that issue isn't your problem. Your problem is falsified autopsy report that declares her," he jabs his finger at the phone again, "legally dead even though she wasn't dead and hadn't been until his daughter finally put a bullet in her brain but not before she put one through her heart. Now, tell me what I'm supposed to tell him when he will start wondering how this could happen. Because I'm hazarding a guess that no one told him who did her autopsy and who he can thank for not having a chance to talk with his daughter," he tells her.
"I don't know," Molly whispers tearfully. "I only know what she told me and even that wasn't much."
"But you still risked everything by trusting her word," he retorts. "Your career, your freedom, your friends and even their lives. Because that's what is and was at stake here."
Molly wipes tears from her eyes and sighs, "She came to me after the first busk, day after I think. Told me that she was worried about her past catching up with her. She clarified very little, only that she once had been a part of a group of…." she's struggling with finding the right word.
"Murderers for hire?" he suggests.
"Freelance agents that took dirty jobs that were too risky for the official MI5 and MI6 agents," she explains. "She told me that her last job went bad and that she barely made it out in one piece and breathing. That's why she decided to retire, she changed her name, her appearance, adopted a new identity. She really changed, John. You have to believe it."
He snorts, "No, she didn't. Keep going though."
"She was worried that this busk case Sherlock was working on would lead people who wanted her dead to her and to you," she says earnestly. "She didn't want to risk your lives..."
John snorts again.
"She told me that if the worst came to worst, she would need to do what…" she pauses, "what Sherlock did. I told her that I couldn't but then she brought in Mycroft."
"Personally?" John prompts her.
"More like invoked his name," she grimaces.
"And you just said, yes," he mutters.
"Not until Mycroft called me," she sighs. "It was after…" she shakes her head. "One day we just received a body that was donated for science. She fit Mary's height and physical type. We had to manipulate with her appearance but I was provided with the same equipment like the last time. A very life-like mask, contact lenses. The hair needed changing but…" she shakes her head again.
"You just let us believe in her death," he hisses lividly. "You, who saw me after Sherlock died, who knew that he wasn't dead in the first place. And you stood by my side, so eager to help while my life was falling apart. And Sherlock…" he can't bring himself to finish the sentence.
Sherlock was dying because Mary died. Admittedly he spiralled down the path of self-destruction because Mary told him to when John pushed him away but if Molly had even shred of decency, she should have come clean to both of them.
"You know what," he says suddenly. "I don't care anymore. Not about Mary, not about you. In fact, you can prepare yourself for removal of your name from any documents that would name her one of K… Rosie's guardians. Don't you even dare to step a foot inside Baker Street unless one of us will specifically invite you. I won't and I hazard a guess that after we will talk Sherlock might be not eager to extend an invitation himself. Speaking of Sherlock, don't contact him unless he will contact you first. There will be no curious deliveries unless he will specifically ask for some."
"But Sherlock," Molly protests. "He's not alright."
"Of course, he isn't," he hisses. "And he won't be for a longer while," he adds more calmly. "But he's no longer your concern, Molly. He's mine. Because there's one thing you didn't factor into this mess. Whatever it was, for whatever reason Mycroft agreed with that plan neither of you didn't factor into it the possibility that it could go sideways, and it had. A young, innocent girl is dead, another one will grow up without a mother because you people keep playing games with other peoples' lives. This. Ends. Now," he adds as he stands up and pockets his phone. "Farewell, Doctor Hooper, or not, I don't care," he throws the last sentence practically over his shoulder and he leaves the café.
Instead of heading back to the shop though he walks to the convenience store and buys a pack of low tar, menthol cigarettes and a lighter. Sherlock can't stand menthol or low tar cigarettes and John isn't exactly planning to start smoking. Not with two babies and a man with cracked ribs around. Certainly not after spending quite a lot of time on lecturing Sherlock about pros of not smoking.
But if there's anything that warrants a cigarette is this entire day. At every turn from the moment he woke up things started to pill up. Mrs H and her sister, Josie suddenly appearing at Baker Street, Daisy's message and search for her which concluded in the information about her death. Then Mary and now Molly.
Besides a cigarette is better than a glass of whiskey and he actually isn't planning to smoke more than a few of them. In a row.
Which he does. He chain smokes three of them in a row, watching the café intently until he finally sees Molly leave it. She doesn't see him and hails a cab.
"Good riddance," he mutters to himself as he lights up the fourth one.
Despite the certainty in his words earlier he is unsure about the certainty of his actions that he promised will be followed. For starters he's not Sherlock's master and he can't forbid him anything. Then there's Molly herself. She isn't a bad person but extremely gullible when it comes to people that earned her trust. Vide Jim from IT. Vide Mary and Mary managed to dupe even Sherlock so Molly does deserve some slack. But not before putting her feet into the fire to make her realise into how insanely dangerous game she got herself into.
If she goes to Greg, and most probably she will, because she trusts and likes him, Greg might protect her from her foolish actions. Like he protected John last week.
Greg is a saint and he deserves a basket.
And better friends, he muses. Speaking of better friends, I should definitely check on how Sherlock is doing.
He finishes the cigarette, throws the butt and the rest of the pack into the bin and heads back into the shop.
He looks for Sherlock at the display with the pushchairs. He didn't exactly expect him to stay there all the time while he was gone but from experience, he knows that while following someone is the best to start where you left off.
He intends to turn around and check the section with the clothes when behind his back he hears footsteps, a few mingled happy squeals which are followed by a deep inhale and a comment.
"You were smoking," Sherlock announces.
"Hello there," says John as he turns around, taking Katie from Sherlock's arms. "Did you miss me?"
"Baba," Katie states.
"Menthol and low tar," Sherlock mutters. "You hypocrite."
"Better that than whiskey," answers John.
"But menthol and low tar, you heathen," sighs Sherlock.
"Technically you're a heathen, most smokers these days go for low tar for health reasons," quips John. "Which makes them hypocrites who should quit for health reasons."
"Speaking of which," says Sherlock and he looks at John expectantly.
"I'm not planning to take up smoking," says John quickly. "I…" he starts and sighs heavily, "I talked with Molly."
Sherlock blinks slowly and mouths 'oh'. Then he takes a deep breath and asks cautiously, "How did that go?"
"They were working together, the three of them," answers John grimly. "Would you terribly mind letting me knock out Mycroft's teeth next time we will see him?" he asks with a sigh.
"I would," says Sherlock simply. "Because I want to knock out his teeth too. You will have to wait until he gets them back in. Might be more satisfying for you that way."
"Deal," says John swiftly then he looks at the cart. "Are you sure that we're going to need all of this?" he asks sceptically.
The cart is filled nearly to the brim with clothes. Sherlock was very thorough though. He even got additional pair of shoes for Katie, which she's going to need because on the top of the pile is a solitary blue coat (which will be replacing her fluffy romper).
"Some of this stuff varies in size," answers Sherlock simply. "Now, I would like to direct your attention to the display behind you because while I formed an opinion on the subject it's certainly lacking your input."
Side-by-side pushchair is something they both agree on after taking into account the girls' competitiveness. Then comes the agreement that it should fit through the standard doorway so that narrows the field a bit. When it comes to the actual weight of the pushchair and the weight it's supposed to carry, John favours more lightweight ones with big carrying capacity while Sherlock favours fully equipped ones with lesser carrying capacity. Sherlock's main argument is that the girls aren't going to use the pushchair till they reach school age but he eventually concedes that a pushchair with bigger carrying capacity is a better choice. Then comes the argument about the handle and whatever or not it should have one or two or three, John doesn't mind two handles but Sherlock argues that a single handle is safer and easier to use. Then comes the argument about the colour. John considers the black one practical but Sherlock calls him boring and actually brings up the subject of the car and how much John hates that colour on the car.
They lose at least twenty minutes on the pushchair but eventually pick one in blue. It has a big carrying capacity, a single handle (not adjustable one but the one with adjustable handle is wider and might be problematic in the doorways) and it even turns out to be in stock.
John feels weird about the argument on the pushchair. On one hand he feels happy that Sherlock takes the subject seriously enough to argue his points with fervour and on the other he feels slightly annoyed that they're even arguing at all. But it's refreshing to have his opinions taken into consideration even though he only managed to win one point on the subject. He fears the subject of nursery furniture though.
Luckily when it comes to that he and Sherlock have a pretty similar opinion. Nothing too fancy. Just two simple rectangular cots that can be converted into toddler beds with a changing table and a wardrobe or chest of drawers.
"We will have to paint the nursery," Sherlock announces when they finally find the set they like the best.
"What's wrong with the colour?" asks John. "You like that no wall looks the same in there."
"I also smoked in there," sighs Sherlock. "The walls need a thorough scrubbing and fresh coat of paint. I'm just not sure about the colour."
"If you aren't looking forward to paint it again after they grow up enough to have separate rooms I say go with green," answers John simply. "Or pink," he smirks.
"I'll paint your bedroom pink," snorts Sherlock.
"Then I will paint your orange," quips John. "Purple then."
"I like purple but I don't like it that much," shrugs Sherlock. "What about yellow?"
"If it will be more pastel than solid and bright yellow," sighs John. "I don't want the room to look like a wedding venue and I'm not a fan of weird bird motives."
"Neither am I," says Sherlock. "What about blue?"
"Bear in mind that you most likely won't be arsed to paint it again after getting it back and your mostly dark wood furniture will clash with most shades of blue," John points out.
"Green?" asks Sherlock. "The same or something richer."
"That still isn't helping us to pick the colour of the furniture. Green goes well with white and any shade of wood," says John.
"Won't white get dirty easier?" asks Sherlock pointedly.
"It will be getting dirty anyway," shrugs John. "Remember, two soon to be toddlers."
"Not helping," points out Sherlock. "I'm not exactly the fan of darker wood," he adds after a moment.
"Neither am I," John agrees. "That leaves white or light wood."
They keep at it for a few minutes but finally settle on light oak. Two cots, two changing tables with a chest of drawers, one wardrobe and a child-sized bookcase, Sherlock tries to argue about a second one but John points out that unless they plan to double the books too, they can get by with one for a while. Instead of another bookcase he convinces Sherlock that two storage chests will be more practical.
On their way to the register Sherlock throws into the cart two carriers and when John tries to protest, he tells him that Katie is reaching the weight limit on hers.
The cashier that sums their purchases is very happy with them because they are leaving a lot of money in the store even though they can't settle who is going to pay until Sherlock, the tall git that he is with his monkey arms grabs John's wallet and holds it over his head while he slides his own card towards the cashier with a bright smile.
"You can pay for the furniture when it arrives," he tells John simply.
The road back home is a slow one due to traffic. Katie and Josie are sleeping in their car-seats even though most certainly both are at least wet but they had such an eventful day that it doesn't bother them. They could have changed them at the shop in the bathroom which was specifically designed for that purpose but after calculating that with them being the fourth in the queue to the bathroom and with two sets of twins in front of them they would be able to reach Baker Street faster than their turn to the bathroom.
While the girls are sleeping and John is driving the car at a snail's pace Sherlock, comfortably slouched in the passenger seat, keeps fiddling with his phone.
"Mycroft?" John asks when they stop at the red light.
"No change," sighs Sherlock. "I'm actually considering invoking the higher authority over him."
"The Queen?" asks John curiously.
Sherlock snorts, "Mycroft respects the Queen but he doesn't exactly fear her as much as he fears Mummy. It's a bit childish though, even by my standards."
John doesn't say anything. Running to mother is a bit petty but if it works…
"I will have to tell them about Daisy and Josie," sighs Sherlock. "It's not a conversation I'm looking forward to but…" he shrugs. "A man's got to do what a man's got to do."
"You want company?" offers John.
"When I don't want your company?" asks Sherlock.
"I can think of a few scenarios," shrugs John.
"So can I," replies Sherlock. "You really wouldn't mind?" he asks earnestly.
"Why would I mind?" asks John.
"You had a long day," points out Sherlock.
"As did you," replies John. "Are they going to be home though?" he asks.
"I would receive a text or an email if they wouldn't be," answers Sherlock. "They tend to announce the leaves that extend beyond a night away from home. It's Mummy's attempt to lure me back into Sussex more often. Plus, even if they aren't at home and would be gone for the night I know where to find a spare key. You wouldn't mind spending more than a day down there?" he asks.
"I don't have to come back to London until Tuesday morning and I can always call in sick," shrugs John. "But will your parents will be fine with me and Katie."
"They adore you," Sherlock replies. "They kept buggering me for ages to introduce you. As far as prior to our first Christmas."
"What stopped you from asking?" asks John. "You knew that Harry wasn't exactly serious about her invite."
"The fact that you aren't gay, my desire to continue our acquaintance and Mummy's everything," mutters Sherlock. "Imagine Mrs H welcoming comments but cranked to the max. Mummy has no filter. By the pudding she would be planning our wedding but it wouldn't matter because I would purposely choke myself to death on a turkey bone or brain myself on something within first ten minutes of the visit. No, it was far safer for everyone to introduce you as a married friend."
"Not married now," John points out.
"But you had been," says Sherlock. "Regardless of who Mary ended up being you can hide behind a very evident sign of your heterosexuality and she might leave you in peace if you tell her that I have wrong bits. Even better, present her with Katie first, she adores babies and loses her marbles around them completely. That's one of the reasons why I try to avoid big family gatherings. If you expose her to too many babies at the same time after them, she gets this wistful look on her face…" he shakes his head. "Anyway, she got her wish, just not the way she hoped she will get it," he sighs.
"It is what it is," sighs John.