Almost to the end!
Previous warnings about lack of betaing apply.
GetoutgetoutgetoutgetoutGETOUT
Molly swung blindly in the corridor.
BANG.
She hoped to god it was one of theirs.
Five Hours Ago
The first order of business was getting that thing out of her body.
She didn't have a scalpel, she didn't have anything to operate on herself with. Her best bet was a pair of bathroom scissors, too small to cause any harm to anything. They could work – Molly would have to make them work.
The second thing was taking out the dumb thing from her body. She needed something like a pair of tweezers, but she hadn't been given that. She could try asking, but it might be suspicious.
Her mattress could be cut open for some springs. They would be too weak to do any damage at all, but that would make them easily twistable into something that would be able to take out the little device. It was risky, but it might work. They springs might also be rusted and give her an unbelievable infection, so she didn't know how to sort it out.
But she thought on it - she thought on the fact that her lunch was coming, and she got a small fork with it. She didn't have anything else to depend on, and the bathroom scissors wouldn't be deep enough. She'd have to basically hack into her own body.
And she had to.
She swallowed.
Soldiers tonight, Molly Hooper, she said to herself softly.
"Are you sure?" Sherlock of her mind-flat asked her.
"I'm certain," she murmured.
"Don't die," he instructed.
"Very practical of you," said Molly softly.
"Don't," he said quietly. "He'll never be the same again if you do."
"Don't say that," said Molly. "He wouldn't say that."
"It's your subconscious," indicated Sherlock of her mind-flat. "That means you know he would say that. He probably has said it. Just not when you heard it."
Molly took a deep breath. She had about an hour until the door knocked and asked for her plate. She had an hour. She had to do an operation on herself with bathroom scissors in that much time.
Breathe, she ordered herself again.
She punctured through her soft skin with the modified bathroom scissors. She had sharpened them to the best of her abilities on the stone slabs of the sink - (only the bathroom was not observed by camera). She cut and cut and cut and cut, and cried in pain.
No anaesthesia.
God help her. Tears came unwittingly out of her eyes, and she couldn't breathe again.
By the time she had destroyed her skin enough to poke through with a fork, blood was pouring out of her. Such was the problem with any kind of surgery outside the hospital. Such was the case.
How was she going to hide her wound - how was she going to hide her wound - she'd taken her bedsheet with her; pretending her period had come and it needed a quick wash. She hoped to tie it around her body, but she needed antiseptic. She needed painkillers. She needed to have the assurance that he wasn't about to kill her - whoever it was that had taken her.
She made a quick job of finally taking the tracker out of her body.
She grinned. One button away.
Kilometres Away
"Sherlock!" yelled John.
"Not now, John!" said Sherlock, contemplating his wall.
"You're going to want to see this!" he said, staring at his laptop.
"Come on, Molly," she murmured. She had torn her bedsheet into strips, tied them around her wound, and carefully hid it under her shirt.
And now, she had to wait.
She nearly collapsed on the bed. She was going to lose too much blood this way, and she needed to lie as still as she could.
He came to her then.
It was a memory - a memory that hadn't seemed relevant until that moment, but which bubbled up in her psyche while she was week with a poorly performed surgery and exhausted.
"It's not him," John had said. Not Moriarty. It didn't feel like Moriarty, apparently -
"Molly, it's not up for debate," said Sherlock. John looked resigned to see Molly go, but the expectation on Mary's face steeled her resolve.
"I know. I refuse to leave," said Molly. "You cannot make me go away simply because an ex-something has lost his mind."
Sherlock decided to pause, regaining his senses. He changed his tactics by pacing around the room and throwing her a glance which didn't fool Molly at all. Distractedly (and with a lot of skill, Molly felt) he said, "Have you done something with your hair? They look nice."
Molly decided not to betray a lick of anything. "Thanks. I went to the parlour last weekend, they've been layered. So, can I go home now?"
Sherlock grit his teeth, and internally, Molly decided she had scored a point. She readied herself for his next offensive.
"Molly, it may be a good idea to leave the country," he said looking at her with a very good imitation of a lover in pain. "I will not be able to focus with you around."
"That's alright," said Molly fairly. "I will ask Mike to shift me to lectures for sometime. Someone else will conduct the autopsies. You won't even need to see me."
John looked more surprised than any other time she had seen him, and Mary was smiling at her. John smiled at her, in his very half-smile-smirk-amused way, and Molly gathered her wits.
"Sherlock, you really cannot force her to abandon everything of hers entirely," said John, now aligning himself with Molly.
"Don't take her side," snapped Sherlock. Molly continued to wait for his next argument.
"Perhaps you will reconsider, since you cannot use a weapon," said Sherlock silkily. "After all, hit-men normally have a higher kill rate than the British Government does of mucking things up."
If Mycroft heard him, he betrayed nothing. He simply tapped away, got up in a bored sort of way. "Do call me once Sherlock and Miss Hooper are done with their domestic."
Sherlock scowled at Mycroft's retreating back. Molly rummaged her bag and pulled out something that everyone kept missing about Molly Hooper: a knife.
"I'm more skilled with this than you are at being a child," she said. "I carry a disguised one, as well. I'll be fine should people try to kidnap me. If someone is aiming to shoot, then they did their research and probably deserve the kill. No one will be able to aim at me with Mycroft's men watching twenty four seven."
Mary grinned. "If you want, I can give you shooting lessons," she offered.
"You know shooting?"
"There has to be something John liked about me," said Mary.
Molly smiled. "That would be wonderful."
"This is absurd. Molly, you have to stop this nonsense," said Sherlock.
"I can go live with Mary, or with Lestrade. Or even at some place of Mycroft's. I don't need to leave the country any more than you need to be dramatic."
"Absolutely not," said Sherlock.
"You cannot force me to be here," said Molly worriedly. Steps were heard from the staircase, and everyone anticipated the arrival of someone – probably someone dramatic.
"May I come in? The kind woman at the door told me that I might as well, some sort of party going on," everyone saw a dark, Indian girl standing at the doorway. She smiled brightly. "Meena. Molly's friend. Hi Sherlock," she added. "Been a while, eh?" Sherlock did not bother with formalities.
"And how do you know Sherlock?" asked John.
"I replaced Sherlock as Molly's best friend after he broke her heart," supplied Meena cheerfully. "You know – thirteen year old drama."
"Why are you here?" asked Sherlock, frowning.
"I called her to pick me up," said Molly. "I'm going home."
"Molly, you are not leaving," said Sherlock.
"Oh, pooh," said Meena. "Here I was, hoping you were confessing undying love or something."
"Perhaps the confession can come later," said Sherlock dryly.
Molly took a sharp intake of breath. "Don't," she said.
"Molly, it was only a joke..." said John tiredly.
"Oh, I can bank on it," said Molly equally tired. "I'm going home."
"Molly, please," he said finally. "You can't go. At least not for a week."
"And why not?" asked Mary curiously.
"It's obvious," he said, his frown becoming more and more pronounced. "She saved my life during the fall three years ago. She was my best friend while we were children. I don't know if he's back, but should he be, he's going to go for you. And if it's not him, the unknown person would have had even more time to realise your role in my life."
"It's not him," John repeated. "It doesn't feel like him."
"That's because Moriarty goes for spectacles that prove just how superior he is," said Sherlock darkly. "This was a spectacle that was simply dramatic for the sake of it."
"Exactly," said John.
"If it was him, I would know where to look..." said Sherlock. "If it was him, then he'd be somewhere in the shadows, ready to discredit and finally kill."
"It's not him, which is why you are more worried they'd go for Molly," said Mary quietly. "If it was anyone who has been able to observe Sherlock for a while, he'd simply get rid of John, or me, or anyone else. But now... Molly is in the picture."
"That's ridiculous," said Molly, her voice small. "No one has ever made the connection."
"No one made the connection until you waltzed in and helped him fake his death, Molly," said Meena silkily. "Once you did that, it puts up a giant red flag over your bloody head. Especially since you did the autopsy – that's become public information now."
Sherlock nodded sourly.
Molly blinked, her heart hammering. She clutched her sweaty palms, preparing herself.
"Sherlock, you said so yourself. They may come for any of us. If the bullies are coming, isn't it better that I am equipped to deal with them? Prepare us, make sure we can contact you, do what needs to be done. You can't do this by yourself, for fuck's sake!" she said frantically, losing any sense of calm she had. "You can't, and you can't make us stand by and watch."
"Sherlock, she has a point," said Mary quietly. "I'm carrying a child. If it's me, I need to know we have a plan in place."
"Mate, you have to listen to reason," said John. "'Alone protects me' won't work anymore. Not with so many liabilities."
Sherlock looked like he was ready to burst into frustration all over again, but Molly saw that they were getting to him.
"You figure it out," she said. "You figure out who they are going for. We get ourselves ready, and we walk in. We know what to expect. They don't."
"You can't leave," said Sherlock harshly, looking at Molly. "You've had your deductions. I'll give you mine: you are the biggest liability. You can't use a weapon, you live alone, and you need constant protection. You cannot leave."
"I won't," said Molly. "I'll take Mrs. Hudson's spare bedroom."
Three Hours Later
"God, Sherlock, where are you?" Molly moaned into her pillow.
Dinner had finally come, and Molly hadn't bothered getting up. Without painkillers, she didn't know what else she could really do.
"Where are you," she whispered into her pillow again.
BANG.
Gunshot.
Molly shot up in bed.
Now.
Distantly, she heard another gunshot. She pulled herself out of bed blearily.
The door banged open in that moment. It was dark, and she couldn't see who it was but it was a very large, very male someone, with something very much like a weapon.
Molly looked at him.
"Up!" he commanded.
"I am up," she said darkly.
He grabbed her by the shoulder and dragged her out. Her wound was going to open, it was going to open, it was going to open -
"Could you please slow down," Molly complained. She couldn't see what was happening - and she could barely concentrate on what was happening - but she had to keep her body loose. She had to surprise.
He seemed convinced that wrenching her arm would be what got her to move faster. He had a heavy, guttural voice. He checked each corridor before walking forward, and Molly followed. Her brain was telling her:
GetoutgetoutgetoutgetoutGETOUT
Molly swung blindly in the corridor.
BANG.
She hoped to god it was one of theirs.
They scrambled downstairs and Molly nearly wrenched her arm away from the man. He pushed her forward and Molly fell against the door which opened.
"Enough, Moran," came the voice from outside the door.
"Oh, Sherlock," said Molly cheerfully. "You're late." Moran, supposedly, grabbed her arm again, holding a gun to her head.
"Molly," said Sherlock shortly.
"Very brave little bird you have here, Holmes," said Moran.
"You could call me a woman," mused Molly. "I'm a person."
She held her feet apart. Her body tightened intensely - she looked at Sherlock, who held a gun up to Moran. Molly caught his eye. He nodded imperceptibly.
She ducked instantly, swung her feet around his, and used whatever training John had managed to get into her brain and dragged him with her. A single gun shot rang through the silence of the evening.
Moran was bleeding from his forehead.
"Nice shot," complimented Molly.
"Thank you," said Sherlock darkly.
The bushes rustled on Sherlock's side, and John emerged. "Molly!" he exclaimed. "Nice of you to make it."
"Well," said Molly, focussing to keep her mind and body together. "I had made a promise."
And nearly done!