We're nearing the end of the story! Maybe one or two chapters more. I'm so in love with all of the reviewers that I just want to continue writing forever. The writer does very little compared to what the audience can achieve, and a serious number of you saved the story from being orphaned.
"Regrettably Lady Smallwood, my brother is a murderer."
With those words, Mycroft knew that he was committing his brother to a death sentence. It was unavoidable; practical; smart; intelligent.
It also broke his heart.
Mycroft dismissed most of his appointments, and Anthea didn't say anything. Her hair were in a pony tail, something she didn't do unless she knew that serious work was afoot.
Mycroft had six months to plan, after which, time would run out. But before any of that happened – before he transformed himself into the ice man again, planning the return of his brother by any means necessary, there were a few things he had to take care of.
Sherlock was not Mycroft. He understood that now. Sherlock loved, even if his method of showing this was twisted. Sherlock enjoyed the company of his chosen few, and enjoyed bestowing this honour to people who understood its weight.
He made a few calls, making sure Mary Watson's ties to her enemies were snapped permanently. It was a day's work, and he missed a few important meetings to make sure that the Watsons were secure. Sherlock would want that – Mycroft made sure the Watson girl would never be in need of a mother. Mrs. Hudson would have a permanent position in 221B. That took one phone call and nothing more. DI Lestrade could take care of himself.
But Molly Hooper would need an explanation.
And Mycroft had no idea how to go about it.
She stepped into the abandoned warehouse, aware of her surroundings. "Hello," she said nervously.
"Miss Hooper," greeted Mycroft.
"You are far too dramatic, Mr. Holmes," she said, chewing her lip.
"I've been informed," he told her simply.
"Well?" she questioned.
Mycroft pondered what he needed to say. "I have not prepared this in the slightest, I assure you. But you will find out, through sources that Sherlock is to be sent for some undercover work in Eastern Europe. Before he leaves, I have to do what I feel is necessary, especially since a conscience is a rare thing."
"Mr. Holmes, you're rambling," Molly pointed out curiously.
"I would like to apologise for my behaviour to you when you were twelve years old, Miss Hooper," he said.
Molly Hooper stared at him, waiting.
"It was unacceptable. I was young and unable to understand my brother. I understand him a lot better now, and I understand you a lot better now."
"Mycroft, please stop," she said. "Stop. He's going to die, isn't he?"
Mycroft did not need to confirm it. She could tell.
Sherlock was going to die.
The thought seemed surreal. After everything Molly had done to ensure that he lived – after everything she had done to make sure that he came back alive. She could not consider the idea that he would die.
The clock struck twelve, and Molly continued to hear the lone cars move. The stars were out, but she could not see them. Her home was a mess and for a moment, so was her life.
Sherlock was going to die.
The clock donged again, and Molly considered watching a few movies to pass the time. They wouldn't affect her, but at least they would distract.
There was a knock on the door, and Molly wondered which one it was – Meena or Sherlock. She wished it wasn't Sherlock.
The door opened unceremoniously, and Molly knew who it was.
"You really need new locks," said Sherlock, annoyed.
Molly didn't say anything, choosing to cuddle closer to her knees.
"Been drinking again? You need to slow down, Molly. You're almost becoming an alcoholic, and you're not that old yet – you will find someone to marry."
At that Molly snapped her head upwards. She smiled, and Sherlock immediately frowned. "What's wrong?"
"You killed a man," said Molly casually.
"I'm aware," said Sherlock evenly.
"You did drugs," she added.
"You slapped me for that," supplied Sherlock.
"And now you're in my apartment."
"In the flesh. Tell me, was it Mycroft that gave it away?"
"He apologised for his behaviour from when we were kids. It wasn't a hard deduction."
"You're becoming good," said Sherlock.
"Thanks," said Molly, downing her glass of scotch. "Come here," she said.
Sherlock squinted suspiciously. He stepped closed, and Molly dragged him down to the sofa.
"Give me some company," she said. "I'm terribly drunk, already half in mourning for a man that was supposed to live. And I need someone to remind me of grey areas."
"I think I need it more," said Sherlock wearily.
"No, you will be fine. You will leave without telling John, or Mary. He can read you very well sometimes, so I don't know how you will go about it. You will die, in six months, by yourself, and have the benefit of knowing that you did everything to secure their futures." She cuddled up in the crook of his neck. "I will wait here, staring at the horizon in true dramatic fashion – something to rival your brother. I will wait to know when it happened, when you left. And once again, alone in my mourning."
Sherlock stroked her hair.
"Stop giving me your secrets, Sherlock Holmes," she whispered. "I'm tired of keeping them. I'm tired of loving you, and I'm tired of not knowing whether you do. God, I'm so lonely as it is."
She fell into his neck again. The amount of alcohol in her system was making it impossible for her to keep herself in her senses. He gripped her by the shoulders, and looked into her brown eyes.
His face was so close, and Molly could write that thesis she had wanted on the biology behind his eyes and their changing colours. Her brain wasn't blanking, she could continue watching.
His lips were close, and then coming closer. His hands held her by the nape of her neck, and he kissed her, gently, softly. His teeth nipped into her bottom lip, and Molly's brain went pleasantly blank. Her hands in his curly hair, she could feel their texture. she could feel the way his long fingers combed into her hair. A Violinist's hands.
His lips shifted, to the corner of her mouth, and Molly took a breath. He was back again, and she had to forget breathing. His tongue did not shove itself into her mouth – it was touching her teeth gently, and Molly knew that this was possibly the best kiss she had ever had.
His hands went between her thighs, carefully massaging her where she knew her sweet spot was. He pushed her shoulders back, and continued to kiss her, and she could feel a frenzy that was locked away.
Molly stopped, panting, without having done anything serious. "I'm sorry. I'm drunk. And I don't know why you are suddenly wanting this."
"I suppose I don't need yet another reason to say," said Sherlock distantly. Molly could feel an underlying bitterness that she ignored.
"Who needs me now?"
"England."
The team assembled in 221B was varied in nature. DI Lestrade had not needed the armed escorts to explain where they were taking him, he instead called shotgun and jumped into the front seat. Mary and John were pushed into Mycroft's car with Anthea, and Sherlock stepped in as well.
"Call Molly," he told Mycroft immediately.
"She's already on her way," Mycroft said.
"What next?" asked John.
"Get everyone to begin working on the technical aspects instantly," said Sherlock.
"Done," said Anthea.
"Send a copy of the screening to me – I will try to find discrepancies to show that it is a fake. Meanwhile, the body needs to be found. Mycroft?"
"Yes," said Mycroft.
"Get Molly to bring us the autopsy report."
"She has the brains to do that herself," Mycroft said.
"Good point," said Sherlock.
Mary pursed her lips, suppressing a smile. John frowned, but said nothing. They drove up to 221B, and found the rest of their people assembled.
Sherlock ignored everyone, taking the stairs two at a time. Mary and John followed closely behind. "The broadcast," Greg pointed out, shoving a recording into the telly.
"Autopsy," added Molly, tossing him a file.
"John, tear down the current stuff on the wall," said Sherlock.
"Right," said John, beginning.
"Mary, you'll find the Moriarty files in a box in that shelf. Get them out, at once."
"All right," said Mary, rushing.
"Mycroft?" added Sherlock.
"Specialists have been at it for a while now." Sherlock walked impatiently, from one end to another.
"Sherlock, stop pacing," said John tersely.
"What wonderful advice, John, I can see why they made you a doctor," said Sherlock, continuing his pacing.
Molly bit her lip, and glanced at John, who simply looked exasperated. "Sherlock, think aloud," she advised.
Sherlock spared her a brief look, before deciding her advice was understandable.
"Moriarty's body was examined by someone not Molly, so we can assume with ease that they made a mistake. The rest of you knew of his death simply because I told you of it, and we need to understand what he is going to do before he does it. Virtually impossible, but I suppose we can try: Moriarty's M.O is normally a fate worse than death, which narrows down a substantial amount. But I suspect this is a very serious copy cat – potentially more dangerous, but at least we can tell that it's a similar pattern."
"Last time he used information given by Mycroft," said Mary, "what do you think he will do now?"
Sherlock stopped on his tracks for a second. He ran his hands through his hair. "Mycroft, are you sure you gave away nothing about – well, our friend?"
"Are you talking about John?" asked Molly. "I'm sure he already knows what is to be known there. You and John are an open book."
"Nothing was given away," assured Mycroft.
"Which friend are you talking about?" asked Greg. "Victor Trevor? He's out of the country."
"No, Trevor will be fine – but we should make sure he is safe. I'll send him a message," Sherlock grinned toothily. "Tell him he owes me for that December in Uni."
"But which friend are you talking about?" asked Mary impatiently.
Mycroft's eyes lingered to Molly for half a second.
"A school friend. Someone who is reasonably important."
"Reasonably important?" said Sherlock scathingly.
"Who is this friend?" demanded John.
"Rest assured, she will have the highest security," said Mycroft, and Molly knew that he was giving her identity to everyone else.
"And I'm sure your tongue slipped, Mr. Holmes," said Molly sarcastically.
Mycroft smiled at her, in his best British-Government-Knows-Best way. "Of course, Miss Hooper. I make mistakes."
"A she?" said John, incredulous.
"A she," repeated Molly dully. She surveyed the room, and before anyone could stop her, snorted.
"Molly," reprimanded Sherlock.
"I'm sorry," she said, and broke out into laughter. "It's absurd. It's nothing I had expected. Six years I waited for this moment, and here we are." She continued to laugh as if her life depended on it. John stared at her like she had finally lost her mind.
"Molly, stop it," snapped Sherlock.
"You stop it, William," returned Molly, collapsing on one of the chairs.
"William?" asked John.
"Isn't that his name?" she said. "'William Sherlock Scott Holmes'? Pompous brat."
Mary suddenly looked like she could have burst with excitement. Sherlock glared at Molly. "Molly!" he said angrily.
"Oh, don't be a clusterfib," said Molly dismissively. "They might as well know."
"That insult did not work when I was seven and it will not work now!" said Sherlock.
"You don't work now," said Molly pettily.
Sherlock pinched the bridge of his nose. "Molly I have told you a thousand times, come-backs which are based on functionality –"
"Are automatically inconsistent with reality, and hence, pointless. I know. I attended your lecture on witticisms," said Molly with a grin. "I have elected to ignore your advice in the face of your discomfort."
"Hang on a tick – you're the best friend from school?" asked John.
"Don't be slow, John," said Mary, excited.
"Neighbours. Played pirates together. He was a dick then, so don't worry, John – it's his natural state of existence."
"I was not!" said Sherlock.
"You told everybody in your introduction to first grade that 'you don't like stupid people.'"
"I was telling the truth!" said Sherlock, exasperated.
"You told me I should try trigonometry when were nine because subtraction was easy," Molly pointed out.
"Molly, you have to admit, subtraction is easy, and you should have tried trigonometry," said Sherlock, rolling his eyes.
"It's like seeing a bizarre nature documentary," muttered John to Lestrade. Greg laughed briefly.
"What about the time you designed an elaborate chemistry experiment which was made to explode and make me pink?"
"To be fair, Miss Hooper, that one was very good," said Mycroft idly.
Mary, John, and Lestrade stared at Mycroft while Sherlock and Molly still engaged in a battle of wits.
"That's not fair!" declared Sherlock. "You did things like that to me as well. You sneaked into my room when were eight and dyed my favourite shirt purple!"
Molly glanced tellingly at Sherlock. "I can see that the tradition is upheld. You continue to have a purple shirt."
"Okay!" said Lestrade loudly. "While this is all very enjoyable, I think we need to focus on what is necessary. Jim Moriarty and Molly's childhood pictures of Sherlock."
Sherlock whipped his head to Greg, glaring. Molly laughed.
"Absolutely. As soon as this mess is over – I have a picture of him wearing an eye-patch."
"Really?" asked John eagerly.
"Molly!" said Sherlock.
"I'm sorry; you were the one who didn't tell them that we knew each other from before six years. I have rights," said Molly.
"She's right," said Mary nodding gleefully.
"And by the by, you'd be a fool to think Moriarty didn't figure out who I was in your life if he's back after three years," said Molly shrewdly. "You had two years to break his network apart, and you did. What do you think he was doing?"
"A criminal mastermind does not simply give up his network," said Mycroft.
"Moriarty isn't a criminal mastermind, he's a man getting bored. It's adequate stimulation to destroy Sherlock again from the roots and give up an empire that is going to take him time to rebuild. Time enough to keep him stimulated at least for five years," said Molly.
Everybody stared at her. "I did date him, you know. There was something beyond green underwears and Glee that I liked about him," said Molly.
"He watched Glee?" asked Greg.
"I made him watch a couple of episodes," said Molly with a shrug. "He liked the whole gay-and-singing angle."
Sherlock blinked, wheeling around to face her. Mycroft's eyebrows must have gone to another dimension.
"You made Moriarty watch Glee?" asked John weakly.
Molly nodded, uncomfortable under the sudden scrutiny of so many people. "Before I dumped him, yes."
Mary, who had been smiling for quite some time asked Molly, "Why are we not better friends? John should be slapped for under-explaining you."
"Yes, well, beyond making friendships," snapped Sherlock. "What are we to do?"
"Mr. Holmes, did you do it?" asked Molly. "It would save us a lot of trouble."
"That's a fair question," said John. "There are only four people who would be able to pull this off, and three of them are dead."
"Which four?" asked Molly, with a frown.
"Mycroft, Moriarty, Magnussen and Adler," rattled John off. "Adler's dead as well, so I dunno."
"Magnussen we can safely rule out," said Sherlock. "Adler, as well."
"Mycroft, Moriarty, Magnussen and Adler," rattled John off. "Adler's dead as well, so I dunno."
"Magnussen we can safely rule out," said Sherlock. "Adler, as well."
"Well, you should probably call her in. She could help," said Molly thoughtlessly.
"Irene Adler?" asked John. "She's dead."
Molly glanced at Sherlock, laughing nervously. "Didn't you know?" asked Molly nervously.
John opened his mouth, part shock, part anger."No. Does anybody die anyway? Or do we all just fake our deaths?" said John grumpily.
"What about Mycroft?" asked Mary.
"He has the power to do it and the motive," Molly pointed out. "His brother gets to stay out of the Eastern Europe thingy."
"'Thingy'?" repeated Sherlock.
"Miss Hooper is referring to your death mission," quipped Mycroft helpfully.
This caused another mini-uproar. Molly shut her ears as John and Greg started yelling simultaneously, while Mrs. Hudson gave a small shout and Mary went completely white.
"I don't believe this –"
"You told us it was undercover work –"
"Where do the lies end?"
"Thanks, Molly," said Sherlock sourly.
"I didn't say anything this time!" said Molly defensively.
Sherlock ignored all of them. He glanced at the video, and the way Jim Moriarty's jaw wobbled as he continued to mouth 'Did you miss me?'
There was something curiously haunting about this ghost which continued to return, again and again. Sherlock frowned at his face, as people continued to yell. His mind became numb to the voice outside. Through the mad eyes, through the reflection, through the suit, he could see something. Something that told him Jim Moriarty was beyond this.
This was flamboyant. This was a parade. This was... showing off.
Jim Moriarty had once shown that he could let out prisoners of the Pentonville Prison, steal crown jewels, and rob the bank of England simultaneously.
Was this another statement, then? 'I can hack into your television screens even when I am dead?' It didn't tie. It wasn't a major breach of security.
Moriarty's methods didn't align with this behaviour. He had tried to kill Sherlock slowly, to destroy everything he held dear. He had crippled England in one, swift, blow and then stood to show off. God only knew that he loved showing off – where Sherlock's Achilles Heel was loving complicated puzzles, Moriarty's was needing an audience which was more than just one to two liked it when a lot of people knew bits of his victory, while he showed the totality of his victory only to those which had lost.
Sherlock could imagine Moriarty wanting to announce his return, crippling England again, without being detected. Leaving a note.
This was someone trying to scare the living daylights out of everyone else.
Which also tallied with Moriarty, but something about this was... off. Sherlock couldn't place his finger on it.
"There's something about this that doesn't smell like Moriarty," said John. And for once, Sherlock completely agreed with John's deductive reasoning.
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