HI EVERYBODY. I'm terrible sorry this took so long, but Sherlock gave me SO MANY troubles. It was so hard writing him minus Molly, and I eventually reached a compromise for it. You'll see that.
Since this took so long, I wrote an extra long one. WOOHOO.
Also, the first part of this chapter is John Watson appreciation. Their friendship is super cool. And I love every one of the commentors, kudosers, and bookmarkers. You're all amazing.
"She's dying! You – you machine!"
It hurt a little, but this had to be perfectly orchestrated. John did not need to know how his heart had started beating at the idea of Mrs. Hudson being shot. It's a lie, Sherlock. You know it is.
It felt like an inglorious deception to John – the whole thing reeked of Sherlock pretending to Molly all those years back that she didn't matter in the slightest. He didn't want to be doing this again. Didn't want to be pretending again, that he didn't care at all.
But Sherlock had to this time. Molly was facing small minded bullies, John was facing a criminal mastermind. And besides, he wasn't cutting John off. Not from himself, anyway. He'd done that with Molly, tried to make it all like she really didn't count. This time – he was deceiving John alone, not himself.
"Sod this. Sod this. You stay here, if you want, on your own."
"Alone is what I have. Alone protects me." Fact.
"Nope. Friends protect people." Hmm. Also fact.
His phone buzzed.
"Your only three friends in the world will die. Unless –"
"Unless I kill myself. Complete your story."
"You've gotta admit, that's sexier," said the lunatic, with feeling.
"And I die in disgrace?" he asked. Oh god, John. John's going to kill him if he survived this anyway. You know what happens when people go it alone, Sherlock. Your bloody arse is going to get whooped.
"Of course, that's the point of this. Oh. You've got an audience now. Of you pop. Go on. I told you how this ends." Sherlock stepped on the precipice. Will you jump, Sherlock? Asked Molly's voice gently. What are you doing here? He asked, agitated. Reminding you that John's not going to be hurt, neither are you.
"Your death is the only thing that's going to call of the killers. I'm certainly not going to do it."
"Can you give me one moment please?" Molly he didn't need to worry about. He hoped John would be okay. "One moment of privacy. Please?" He would miss John terribly, more than anyone else.
"Of course."
And that when Sherlock started laughing. This whole situation was utterly, completely, mind bogglingly ridiculous. Molly was always right. They were going to be fine.
"What?" turned the lunatic. "What is it? What did I miss?" He practically hoped down from the precipice. "You're not going to do it?" asked Sherlock. "So the killers can be called off then? There's a recall code, or a word or a number. I don't have to die. If I've got you."
"You think you can make me stop the order? You think you can make me do that?"
"Yes. So do you."
"Sherlock, your big brother and all the King's horses couldn't make me do anything I didn't want to."
"Yes, but I'm not my brother, remember?" He wasn't, he understood that now. Mycroft could shut off his emotions, he had always been that much smarter than Sherlock. That's why he fit better in society. Sherlock – he had always cared too much. Blame it on Molly Hooper from his childhood, and John Watson from recently. "I am you. Prepared to do anything. Prepared to burn." And I would, for John, thought Sherlock fiercely. "Prepared to do what ordinary people won't do."
Which was why when Moriarty shot himself in the head, the only thing Sherlock thought was – well, one more adventure together, John Watson. And goodbye for now.
The boy was tall, well built (surprisingly), and with curly hair. He had a blue scarf around his neck, and a very proud demeanor. The customary Belstaff we will know him by in his later years was yet to come up, but essentially, this was Sherlock Holmes, in college.
His dormitory was dark and predictably, there was a mess there. It was filled with endless books – and nothing of the literary orientation. There was a book on trains, hundreds on chemistry, another hundred on murders, thirty or so on psychology, and a good few on physics. There was a single mattress in the corner, as if sleeping was of no consequence. The fridge was filled with samples of all kinds.
His major was chemistry and he was a man with cold, calculating eyes. He had recently begun to dabble recreationally in drugs, but never anything that could be particularly harmful. There were rumors about his man. They said he could tell the stories of everyone just by looking at them.
As such, Sherlock had a small clientele of people seeking his assistance. However, it was nothing like murders. These were simply small time clients with missing objects, secrets to unveil, and irritating little experiences they needed explanations to. Sherlock had no qualms about ensuring them of their own stupidity. How he got to this point, however, was a curious story. Sherlock often thought about it with disdain – how on earth was he friends with someone as dimwitted and silly as Molly Hooper? It was a good riddance, that one.
First summer without Molly was difficult, particularly with his brother being the only playmate Sherlock had for company. He did not ever think about her, but for some reason, he had the oddest sensation that someone was talking to him, through the wind. And funnily enough, he found that he wished to answer the things it said.
But it vanished too soon. He could never decipher them.
"Mycroft, I'm bored." They were walking in the small wood by their house.
"Go study, Sherlock. I'm busy."
"You're always busy," muttered Sherlock mutinously. He patted Redbeard on the head.
"What do you want me to do?" he asked long sufferingly.
"I don't know!" Sherlock was frustrated. He stabbed the ground in anger. "You're so annoying and superior. Can't you just do something?"
Mycroft sent prayers to whatever gods were listening.
"Alright," said Mycroft, eyes glimmering suddenly. "We're going to play monsters in the woods."
It wasn't the most enjoyable experience for Sherlock. Redbeard stuck by his side, throughout. They went deep into the wood, and while Sherlock had a sense of where he was, it felt like they were lost. And then Mycroft did that thing – "Run Sherlock, run. There's monsters all over the wood. Everywhere."
"Run Sherlock. East Wind is coming. It's coming to get you!"
Needless to say that Sherlock did not search for Mycroft again when bored.
It was now that Sherlock began to tramp across the country, finding more dead birds and plants and animals and insects all over. It wasn't his fault that the fertilizing industry has poison in its supplements. That's what he kept repeating when the police confronted him about it.
That's what Sherlock had always liked. Small puzzles, things that challenged him.
It was almost enjoyable, if a little lonely, finding puzzles. The sand that did not fit the mud. The tree that had been felled with no explanation. Irish tourists coming to run from the Government. Sherlock almost managed to put the seedy background where Molly lurked out of his mind. Redbeard was the companion who managed to get Molly out of his head. He dismissed every thought about her, or at least – he tried, when Redbeard was around.
He couldn't help it. He had to speak to someone. He spoke to her once or twice.
Molly, I just performed a fantastic new chemistry experiment. It was adequately enjoyable. You'd have liked it.
And sometimes, he could swear someone like her was replying. That's amazing Sherlock! But refrain from telling me details I have no hope of understanding, please?
He didn't realize how important Molly had been in being able to go through a typical school day. Sherlock's head nearly exploded with buzzing; he couldn't help it. When he got irritated, he started deducing. When he started deducing, things went downhill very soon.
"Your Mum is obviously lying to you, you idiot. She has a lover. She's cheating on your father with her – accountant? No, her secretary. Additionally, she lied about being straight."
Carl Powers had gotten on his nerves, he really had. "What is your name, new kid? Why the fuck don't you talk to anyone?"
Sherlock had shrugged the boy off. "I didn't want to talk to you," he said, pissed off.
"That's high and mighty of you," leered the boy with his friends.
Sherlock rolled his eyes and said dimly, "I didn't want to talk to you because I'm bad at talking."
That seemed like the right thing to say.
Except the boy kept going at it, again and again, and again some more. "Oh really? Fancy yourself too smart, do you? Didn't you know all the answers in class today?"
"It's not my fault you're about as stupid as your Mum," said Sherlock, not bothering to keep his voice down when he told Carl Powers exactly why he was as stupid as his Mum.
"What on earth are you doing?" asked Sherlock, when he stumbled upon his brother concentrating deeply, and staring at the wall.
Mycroft said nothing at all.
"Yes, the wall is clearly deeply interesting," said Sherlock sarcastically. He hadn't had a very good day. School had been particularly taxing.
Once again, ignored.
Sherlock rolled his eyes and left him at it. Mycroft was best left alone, or he would proceed to tell Sherlock in clear terms of the East Wind and how it was plucking off the unworthy.
"Done!" came his voice finally. He glanced upon Sherlock, surprised to find him there. "Good afternoon," he said evenly.
"What were you doing?" asked Sherlock, hating himself for his curiosity.
"I was building a theoretical mind palace. Took me an hour. I think I'm getting slow."
"A mind palace?"
Sherlock researched the concept until he could do no further. The theories of memory that spanned across the centuries were something he had never bothered studying all those years ago when he dabbled in Piaget's cognition. However, right now, he decided having a memory palace would be useful.
Mycroft did not seem to need a memory palace – however, he did occasionally build one for tests and exams, as it was too much effort to actually study for things, when you can just store up everything needed to get full marks in every test.
Sherlock was looking for something a little more permanent.
"Mycroft?" he asked one day, when he had been unusually quiet.
"Yes?" asked his brother, who was applying for colleges.
"Are mind palaces good for separating your feelings from your mind?"
Mycroft pondered the boy for a second. "Yes, they are." No other instruction was given.
The result was almost always a crumbling palace which could not sustain itself, while Sherlock would grit his teeth in frustration.
"Concentrate!" he told himself.
He built it again – slowly, gently. Not a brick should fall – the entire thing came into his mind's eye again – a giant manor with a giant door. Alright, thought Sherlock, now just place your stuff inside the different rooms. He began to organize himself – the different rooms with different things, until, once again, after an hour's work, the whole thing began collapsing.
"No, no, no!" he yelled, running in the different rooms.
"Worthless," sneered the Mycroft of his mind. "You can make small mind palaces, but you cannot do something as simple as this?"
"I'm trying!" yelled Sherlock, glaring.
"Sherlock?" the voice is small, gentle, kind. Molly was in front of him. "I think you're going about this all wrong."
"How would you know?" spat Sherlock cruelly. Molly of his mind recoiled a little.
"I'm just saying – I think you're imagining the whole thing at once, that's why. Why don't you… start small?" she looked at him hopefully.
Sherlock's nostrils flared.
"Come on, I'll help you. Like when we did that experiment on the salts and how they should be distinguished? You taught me about cations?"
Sherlock was staring at her. "Funny, that. Cations, that is. And anions. Now how about that mind palace?" she asked.
"Alright," he said.
She grinned at him brightly, mischievously. Like she used to. "Think of something familiar," she said. Sherlock pictured his bedroom when he still lived next to Molly. "That's good. Make it a bit bigger, Sherlock? You tend to stash information."
Sherlock's face twitched. He imagined his old house, properly. Every nook and cranny. "Now begin keeping stuff in it," said Molly. "You can't make separate rooms for everyone just yet, but it really wouldn't take you long, once you get the basics. For now, just stuff people you know in one room. Memories in one room. School in one room. And cases in the largest room of them all."
Sherlock opened his eyes – she was staring at him, smiling. The whole thing didn't collapse into pieces at all. Sherlock stared at her incredulously. "Keep building on that," she said.
It was small, but a few hours after that, Sherlock had a functioning Mind Palace. He was thirteen years old.
The days began to run past, with Sherlock's Palace increasing in structure and in efficiency. Carl Powers still got on his nerves. He still had a tendency to lash out at his bullies in anger – two affairs, one father in the Secret Service, sister doing drugs, and three divorces – and he still got into a lot of trouble for it.
"Mr. Holmes, can you explain how you knew all that?" asked the principal.
Sherlock stared at the clock.
"Mr. Holmes?"
"I knew because I pay attention!" Sherlock said, in anger. "Didn't you notice the state of their rings? Constantly taken off, put on again – and dirty, dirty as anything. My parents clean their rings everyday, did you know, Ma'am? His father has a very open tell – I thought they trained the Secret Service or something!"
His nostrils flared in anger.
The principal stared at him for a minute. A pause. "Your parents are out of town, and they told me to call your brother, who I understand is coming home for the Holidays in two days time."
Sherlock groaned. Wasn't it enough that Mycroft came home for college?
"Mother's been in an accident," was what Mycroft had said.
It is a curious tendency of the mind to go into an overdrive, imagining every dark and desperate situation until more information is supplied. Mycroft had only called him in school, informed him of the circumstances, and told him to stay put. Sherlock had promptly been driven into a frenzy.
"Calm down," Mycroft of his mind told him darkly.
The mind palace built by Sherlock had grown since Molly had taught him how – it had only been a year, but it had developed fantastically. He spent an hour in it everyday, keeping up maintenance, and retreating into it during school. It had finally grasped the large manor he had wished for ever since he had begun making it.
"Calm down," Molly of his mind told him. "Separate your feelings from your mind," she told him gently. "That was the purpose of this whole thing."
Sherlock took a deep breath, concentrating. He examined everything that caused him to get into this state of frenzy, and pushed it, bit by bit, into another room.
Sherlock's Mind Palace had become large. It was gigantic. He salted away all the facts he could possibly find. He even managed to have different rooms for different people, finally.
It was when the O'Sullivan's House was burnt to the ground that the Police first noticed Sherlock Holmes. Needless to say, it has been an uneasy relationship ever since.
The fire had happened the night before, and Sherlock was walking across the site in question, (Redbeard in tow) when he was shooed by a Police Officer.
"Go away, son. This is police business."
Sherlock surveyed the site in one quick sweep. "You're looking in the wrong place," he said dully.
"What?"
"Those bushes. Trampled. Look there. I assumed you'll find a small silver fastening. It's part of a collection by Traubert's. Very fancy stuff – the house had a set of papers, very important – the research he was conducting, all insured for a lot of money. He burnt the house. You'll find the shoes in –" Sherlock paused to look at the stricken man in the suit. "A ditch, ten miles off, near a pond."
It took far too long to explain why and how Sherlock knew.
The girl was looking at him like a cat trying to be sly. Sherlock paid no attention to her.
"You're Sherlock Holmes, right?" she asked. She fluttered her eyelashes irritatingly.
"Yes," he said without feeling.
"I heard you can do a magic trick where you manage to know everything about the person in front of you," she said demurely, smiling at him with sharp, white teeth.
Sherlock groaned in frustration. "It's not magic," he said.
"I'm sure. I'm Joan," she said, by way of explanation.
Joan seemed suitably irritating. Sherlock's mind was buzzing again, and he really needed to shut it up. Especially since now, his genitals seemed to have a mind of their own. Sherlock was constantly struggling to control his impulses, to shut himself out, but like most of his schemes with the mind, they didn't always work.
"Feelings again, Sherlock?" asked Mycroft of his mind.
"Shut up," Sherlock rolled his eyes.
Then again, if he went through with his desires, maybe the craving would leave in a few years. It would not take too long – as soon as the hormonal changes were out of the way, his body would be sated.
Well, it was a theory.
He hated it, in his own way – the kisses, the tongues, the bloody orgy of the flesh. Whenever he engaged in it, there was sensory overload, and he would detach himself from the experience itself – look at it clinically, while his body responded enthusiastically.
Occasionally, he would feel a spurt of something in his heart. But he ignored it. In his mind palace, Molly Hooper was increasingly not seen anymore, hiding away for months on end.
He found that he didn't mind it. Separating the important things made it easier for him to concentrate on what really mattered. No one would get hurt this way.
"Go away, Molly, I need to concentrate," he said to Molly of his mind. He thought he saw a look of brief hurt on her face. It didn't matter, more important things needed focus.
"Why do you care so much about how Carl Powers died, Sherlock?" asked Mycroft of his mind smugly.
"Because something doesn't fit," said Sherlock, pacing. The words popped out of his mind without thought, without pondering.
Mycroft raised his eyebrows at him. "Good," he said. Sherlock nodded briefly.
"What doesn't fit?" asked someone else. Odd. Carl Powers was in his head. How irritating.
"Well, something doesn't," snarled Sherlock. Think. Think.
His large mind palace – now the manor he had always wanted had a specific room, made essentially for the recreation of murder scenes. Sherlock was at the pool then, with the body of the sixteen year old dying. Drowning. He bent over the stools, the tables, the pool itself. "Nothing wrong with the colour of the pool," he muttered.
"Oh Sherlock, don't be stupid," said Mycroft, walking in behind him.
"What? It's a theory!" defended Sherlock.
"No, it's an impossibility. Nobody else died because of the pool. You were always so stupid."
"Oh, shut up, Mycroft," said Sherlock.
"What about the boy itself?" came the timid voice of Molly Hooper.
Sherlock turned around, snapping at Molly at once, "Molly, this isn't a bloody feeling fest. We don't care about the boy – does it matter that he was a sloppy, indecisive, irritating little bully who cared for nothing more than his sh –" Everything became quiet.
Molly disappeared.
"What did you say about me, nerd?" asked the menacing voice of Carl.
"Your shoes!" shouted Sherlock. "Ah yes, the shoes!"
The police refused to get involved any more, ruling the death as a drowning. But for the first time, Sherlock found his blood racing, his head filled. The buzz the murder had given him was possibly not normal, but then again, neither was he. It was the first time he thought about how Molly had told him to be a detective. The girl might have some sense, after all.
"It's alright, Sherlock," Molly of his mind said.
"Go away," said Sherlock coldly.
"Look –" Molly said desperately.
"He's dead!" shouted Sherlock. "You didn't even have the decency to die before you left me. Redbeard didn't deserve that."
"All they said was they were sending him to a –"
"Molly are you really that stupid?" asked Sherlock. "He's dead!"
Redbeard, the consummate survivor had finally left Sherlock. Sherlock's mind palace was all messy at the moment. His legs had begun to wobble. He had stopped wanting to go out on walks, gradually. Sherlock's parents had told him he was going to a farm to get better.
"See what happens when you care, Sherlock?" Molly had gone, to be replaced by Mycroft.
Sherlock grit his teeth. "How do I stop it?" he asked, determinedly.
"Caring is not an advantage," said Mycroft softly. "You must accept that. Sentiment has to go."
He had to accept it. It was too much to care about the things he was helping – it always came in the middle. It didn't help anything. Mycroft was right, in a way. Sentiment was a chemical problem, it wasn't an issue that required too much thought. All he needed to do was put his emotions where they wouldn't interfere.
Sherlock shut his eyes as tight as possible. He hunted down every memory, every emotion he had ever held, everything – they were hiding in nooks and corners he had not accepted. He pushed everything away, cornered into a small little room. It had been shifted at the bottom of the house, behind the cellars, and into a dungeon. Molly Hooper followed him there. "Sherlock, please," she said.
Sherlock was now seventeen years old. When they were children, Molly had always been taller than him. Right now, she was in front of him – twelve years old, in a red jumper, begging, like she had. He towered over her, his eyes cold, glistening, hard.
"Sentiment," he said quietly, locking her away in the dungeon. If that's what it took to get Molly Hooper out of his head.
If college ever brought anything good for him, it was Victor Trevor. Possibly the only boy Sherlock could tolerate on a daily basis. The man was snarky, irritating, high almost all the time, but funny. And he fed Sherlock's habits, which was always good for Sherlock.
However, he had a tendency to force Sherlock into uncomfortable situations – such as now, when Sherlock had been unceremoniously dragged into the musty heat of a dance club.
"So Sherlock," said the man in question. "Anything catch your eye?"
Sherlock looked at him appraisingly. "No thank you," he said lowly. "Not my area."
"Come on," urged Victor. "There must have been someone you liked, even if you are a machine now days."
Sherlock's muscle twitched.
"Aha! So there was someone, am I right?"
"No. No!" said Sherlock at once. "There was never anyone – I indulged in intercourse once or twice, but once it wore off, I decided it was not worth the effort. Sensory bloody overload."
Victor squinted at Sherlock. "I'd believe you," said Victor slowly, "If there was even the slightest possibility that whoever you liked was the one you engaged in 'intercourse' with. The most likely possibility is that you didn't even touch her. Ha! You're thinking about her right now."
Sherlock really hated clubs for a reason. But at least the drugs were readily available.
He was only having coffee – studying, for once. It was terribly late in the night. Apparently he had to give this exam, or the University was going to toss him out. The woman at the counter smiled at him briefly. Brown hair, brown eyes. She looked like Molly. The name tag read Wendy, though, so whoever it was, didn't know him.
Besides, Sherlock had a lurking feeling Molly would recognize him without thinking twice.
Sherlock's capacity for drugs probably had something to do with the constant buzz of his mind – it was refusing to shut up, ever. Constantly – the woman who's marriage was crumbling, the boy who was going to break up with his girlfriend. Overload, overload, overload. He needed to concentrate on his bloody exams, or even the University was going to push him out. Victor had originally been impressed by how much he could stomach these days, but Sherlock could spot the worry now. Trevor was worried about Sherlock's drug intake. Ironic? Probably.
The woman – Wendy – happily married (It caused a jolt in Sherlock's mind, for a second) – her shifted ended. She smiled at the owner, wore her coat, and walked off into the street. Sherlock looked at her briefly – before the drunk driver slammed into her.
Everything slowed down in Sherlock's mind. Everything – the woman, definitely dead. And in her dead figure, he spotted more and more similarities to Molly. The small hands, the delicate features, the small voice, Oh God, Oh God, Oh God, - he dragged her to the ambulance, but she was already gone. People surrounded him and Sherlock couldn't breath.
Shut it out. Shut it out. SHUT IT OUT.
Stop thinking, stop thinking.
Sherlock, you don't have to –
Fuck all this –
Sherlock needed to get high. He really needed it.
It didn't matter, he supposed. After University, Victor had gone – pursuing a career in journalism. Relatively quite clean, and only indulging very occasionally. Sherlock, on the other hand…
When Sherlock Holmes met Molly Hooper once again was a curious thing. He was shivering, out of cold, out of withdrawal, after having been found OD'd.
"Good evening, Miss Hooper. The body is through here," said the Lieutenant.
Sherlock's head snapped up, without thinking.
"You can call me Molly, you know Sally," said the woman nervously. Her back was turned, so Sherlock could see nothing more than the small stature, the brown hair.
"Yeah, sure," said Sally. "Some other day. Do you want the file?"
Molly turned, ever so slightly, and Sherlock could do nothing more than stare.
Good God, what happened to you? He asked himself. She had become – taller. The profile showed the features he had known so well – the small lips, the dark eyes – brown, as ever. She was wearing a ridiculous jumper (when did her taste get so bad?) and she was smiling in the same, nervous sort of way. But there was something missing – something that used to be there when she was seven years old.
"We've had this freak in, you know," said the woman conversationally. Molly bit her lip, and Sherlock knew she disapproved. "Been spouting all sorts of crap – seems to know everyone's story."
It was as if he was aware of it – her heart rate spiked. "I knew someone who could do that," said Molly smiling nervously. "Don't tell Dr. Maloney this but – I don't think Mr. Donnel died of a heart attack – the extra drugs in his system do not make sense. He was dying, definitely, but someone deliberately put the chemicals that caused the heart to fail. What about this new one?"
"Dead lady," said Sally. "She was found in an alley, stabbed."
Molly was glancing over the files and picture in them. "The Detective says we should call it an alley way robbery gone wrong."
"Oh no, there's definitely intent to kill," said Molly, her eyes becoming round. "Look here –" she pointed at something in the file. "This stab wound is deliberate – into the gut, clean, sharp. All the others are accessories."
Sherlock had no idea when she left, but now – he knew exactly who Molly Hooper was.
He was curled up in the corner of the office, with his brother sitting close by. "Idiots," he muttered under his breath.
"He has been spouting a lot of stuff about the different cases we get," said Lestrade delicately. "And he keeps calling the Police incompetent."
"Forgive me, he does have a tendency to do that," said Mycroft.
"It's a pity you're such a mess, Mr. Holmes. We could use abilities such as yours."
At that, Sherlock's ears sparked upwards. "Could you? Would you?"
Lestrade looked momentarily taken aback. "If you clean yourself up," he said conditionally.
Sherlock looked at Mycroft deliberately. Molly's face swam into view. "I'll clean up. I'll get myself fixed. If they allow me to take cases."
Molly smuggles him into her flat, and he's still not sure how. Suffice to say that Molly Hooper is a lot more resourceful than expected. Especially considering he's heavily injured and hurt all over. She sneaks him into a van which he still isn't sure how she acquired, pushes him into her flat, and says breathlessly, "I won't be long. I have to perform your autopsy right now. Have to forbid everyone from coming in, have to make sure no cameras are switched on. You know. The daily thing."
She laughs briefly and even Sherlock feels like smiling. It's quite funny, after all.
He looks around Molly's home. So this is where Molly Hooper has been living all this while.
It's so… Molly.
The books – each and every neatly kept and codified stack of it, the food, the thumbed over recipe book of confectionaries. The hideous number of jumpers (he still wonders where that trait surfaced from. Her jumpers used to be quite reasonable), her clothes, her piano. It's so… Molly.
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