Standard disclaime: not mine

I apologize in advance, but I'll be back with another update on Sunday.

Feel free to come find me on tumblr at aphraelsan!

—

2012

Molly Hooper sat in the back of a sleek black car, feeling exhausted. Beyond exhausted. There was blood on her favorite jumper, inexplicable dirt under her fingernails, and she stank from both exertion and stress. Her hair was piled on top of her head in a messy bun that was neither artful nor comfortable.

She had left Sherlock tucked into her bed, bruised and out of his gourd on pain killers for the injuries he'd sustained jumping from the roof of Bart's earlier today. Molly herself had been halfway out of her jumper and on her way to the spare bedroom when a beautiful brunette had come knocking on her door and insisted that Mycroft Holmes needed to see her immediately. She'd seriously considered ignoring her in favor of the lumpy, ancient futon that was calling to her from her spare room, but in the end she went.

The brunette, Anthea, was poor company. She was typing away on a phone that seemed permanently grafted to her hand. Molly pressed her forehead to the cool glass of the window. She gazed blankly out at the dark streets, trying not to think too hard about the events of the day, the multitude of things that could've gone wrong with the Holmes brothers' plan, or what would happen to Sherlock now that he was "dead."

She was bustled through what appeared to be the back entrance to a very old, very grand building and down the stairs. She was starting to grow concerned that she had wandered into a vampire movie when she was finally ushered into a suspiciously dark basement office that could have used a lamp or three. Mycroft Holmes sat behind an ostentatious wooden desk at the end of the room.

He really is very pale. Come to think on it, have I ever actually seen him in sunlight? Or eat food? The corner of her mouth quirked up. It was a good thing she could amuse herself, because Mycroft Holmes probably wasn't up to the job.

"Miss Hooper, thank you for joining me on short notice." He gestured to the chair in front of him.

She sat uncomfortably, pulling the sleeves of her jumper over her hands in a gesture that was part nerves and part the chill of the room. "I erm… I don't know there was much of a choice. But it's doctor - Doctor Hooper."

Mycroft sat up and grimaced in surprise, then exchanged a look with his assistant. The gesture appeared contemptuous, but Molly had known Sherlock long enough to suspect that it was his own way of masking social discomfort.

"Yes well, for this little scheme of my dear brother's to work, it will be vital that you be seen to mourn him convincingly. You will need to give no indication at all that there is even the smallest chance that Sherlock Holmes is alive in the world, especially to his nearest and dearest."

"I know, Sherlock explained-"

"In short," he continued, as if she hadn't spoken, "Doctor Hooper, I am going to teach you how to lie. Very, very well."

Now

Mary Watson climbed the four steps up to Molly's house and stood for a moment, wheezing more than she was proud of.

John tried to hold her elbow withstood fingers of a hand that was already clutching sparkling cider, his other filled with Indian takeout. "You okay?"

"Fine, brilliant. Ooof! Just developing my own gravitational pull. Now remember the plan."

"Remind me why we're doing this again?"

"Being there for a friend in her time of need, distracting me from the torment of the last weeks of pregnancy, laying groundwork for our friends to make peace - how many reasons do you need?"

"Yeah, but why are you doing this? I know you, Mary - or at least I'm starting to. None of that's the reason we're actually here. Why are we pushing this?"

"I smell a fib, John Watson. I smell a whole ocean of malarkey - Molly's hiding something and so is Sherlock. If we can get to the bottom of it, we can help. Now get on with it!"

John presses the buzzer. Instead of a bell, the first notes of Chopin's funeral march rang out. They looked sidelong at one another and began to snicker in unison. It felt incredibly good to laugh together after so many weeks of tension. Mary felt as if a thin layer of healthy skin was growing over the wound in their relationship, knitting it closed inch-by-inch.

They were still giggling when the door opened to reveal a very surprised Molly Hooper clad in a grey vest top that was making a valiant effort to reach her flannel pyjama bottoms over her rather prominent belly.

"Oh…, hi!" She met them with a smile plastered on her face, but there was concern behind it. "Is everything okay? Is something wrong with… is something wrong?"

Mary smiled brightly. "Nothing at all! We're sorry to worry you. We've just had such trouble setting up a time to meet and I've been so dreadfully bored around the house and we just thought we'd pop by and see if you're free. And you are! We brought takeaway."

Molly nodded, still a bit bewildered, and stood back to let them in. "I suppose I am, but I've been dossing about all morning. Work's been so exhausting and I'm on my feet all the time; by the week's end I just want to sleep forever." She took the cider from John and led them to the kitchen. "Balls, sorry, I'm not even dressed."

They did the obligatory diplomatic back-and-forth - "We just wanted to bring by some food and we don't want to be a bother." "No, no that's fine, I'll pop up and get dressed." "Are you sure?" etc, etc.

In the end, Molly ran a brush through her hair and threw on a jumper, and they all ate the Watsons' takeaway sitting on stools at her kitchen island. They talked about babies, and work, and her recent kitchen remodel.

Whilst Molly described in vivid detail the triple homicide and subsequent mess that had brought the house down into her price range, Mary began to wish they really were here just to chat. Despite her ulterior motive, she had to admit that it was lovely to sit and talk with their friend. With all the chaos of her marriage falling apart, Magnussen's blackmail, Sherlock's recovery, and then all the business with the Moriarty message, there hadn't been much time for socializing. Molly was clever, weird, and hilarious in her own way.

Mary had joined a prenatal mom's group, but everyone in it seemed to feel they were born to be mothers. It was lovely to talk with another woman who was excited about parenthood but admitted being overwhelmed by all the choices, about breastfeeding and baby wearing and screen time and the thousand other smaller choices that she wasn't sure she could manage to form an option about. She found that the longer they talked, the harder it was to remember that she had a reason for coming.

Finally, she found an opening when Molly talked about her plans for a nursery on the second floor. "John could give you some ideas! It took us ages to do stenciling on our nursery walls; he got quite good at it. We'd love to help out."
He laughed, "I'm betting 'we' is a colorful way of saying, 'John would love to help.' But I really would be happy to take a look."

Mary begged off on tromping up the stairs, and sent them up without her. As soon as her friend was out of sight, she looked around the room. What are you hiding, Molly Hooper?

She did a professional sweep of the small office, under every cushion and shelf in the sitting room, the medicine chest and toilet tank. There was no laptop on this level; Molly must've been using it in bed when they arrived. She began to fret that the pathologist's secrets may be hidden upstairs, which might as well be Tanzania to her ungainly and deeply unstealthy form.

With time running out, she checked the inside of the freezer thoroughly. Aside from learning that Molly was a bargain shopper, she gained nothing for her efforts.

In the end, the answer was so simple that she almost missed it. As she closed the freezer door, something stuck to the front of it caught her eye. She cursed herself for a fool and grabbed it.

Molly Hooper's secret was hidden in plain sight under a refrigerator magnet.

—

Anyone have a guess about what's under the magnet?