Chapter Eighteen
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Hardly daring to breathe, Greg laid Billie down in her travel cot. Her nose scrunched a little and she kicked gently with one foot, but didn't wake.
"She out then?" Molly asked, raising an eyebrow. Greg blew out a breath.
"Think so. Hopefully."
"Well done. Greg Lestrade, Babysitting Superhero."
Greg snorted. "Yeah, well. I owe John, innit?"
"For what?"
"For all the times he's babysat my consultant."
Molly laughed. "Pretty sure he would've done that anyway."
She was on the bed in their shared hotel room with Mycroft's laptop propped on her knees. Her hair was damp from the shower and she was wearing flannelette pyjamas. They weren't entirely awful. There were no hearts, no humorous slogans, no cutesy cartoon kitties. They were just pyjamas – pale blue, dotted with tiny sprigs of flowers. They were the sort of thing his wife might have worn.
"So what's new in the world of facebook?" Greg asked.
"Mm. Done with facebook. Writing a blog entry now."
"John's?"
"Yeah. Everything you need to know about Russian architecture in ten easy clichés. Oh, and I told everyone that you've got food poisoning from a dodgy prawn cocktail."
"Thanks, I think."
"No problem. Actually, according to facebook, today's John and Mary's wedding anniversary."
Greg winced. "Ouch."
"Yes. Though fortunately I don't think either of them remembered." Molly paused, tilting her head in the direction of the Watsons' room. "Do you think they're ok?"
Greg shrugged. "He hasn't kicked her out yet, and they're not yelling."
"I still don't understand how she could do something like that," Molly said, frowning. "How could she marry John and be friends with all of us, and be stealing information on Sherlock's brother the whole time?"
Greg shrugged again. "I do get it, sort of. I've known people like that before. They decide they want to get clean, get back on the rails or whatever, get invested in a new life somewhere. But if you've spent your whole life being a criminal it can just be… hard to break the mould I guess. Y'know?"
"Mm. Maybe. But still…"
For a moment, Greg considered going over there and sitting with her, but he wasn't quite sure what message that would send. He stayed where he was.
"Did you know?" Molly asked hesitantly.
"God, no. That is – I sort of guessed that she was involved in Sherlock getting shot. Something I overheard John say. And the timing of that massive fight they had, when he moved back to Baker Street… I wondered. But that she was C.I.A.? Not a clue."
Molly tucked her chin down against her chest, her hair slipping forward over her face. She had laid aside the laptop and curled her arms around her knees.
He wanted to walk over there, stroke the hair back from her face and kiss her, but something held him back. Instead, he leaned awkwardly against the wall and stuffed his hands further into his pockets. His right hand encountered his mobile and, for something to do, he pulled it out and fiddled with the screen. It had been awhile since he'd turned it on, and there were a dozen messages waiting. Automatically, he slid his thumb over the inbox icon.
"Sally" - 06/05/16, 07.32pm: Hey smelly. Girls missed you at training today. :-P Have a fab trip. So jealous!
"Sally" - 10/05/16, 03.14pm: Hey boss. I just got lumped with all your bloody paperwork for the coutts and dennis case coz you're still faffing about on holiday. What gives?
"Sally" - 11/05/16, 09.44am: Oi, you pillock, when are you getting home?
"David F." - 11/05/16, 10.17am: Lestrade I thnk I shd tell u that donovan is thrwing her wt around a lot. Pulld me off ross case & filed a complaint bcoz she says I contaminatd evidnce, & I thnk u'll find its not jst me. There is defnitly lots of ill-feeling twrds hr.
"Annie" - 11/05/16, 06.14pm: How come the boys are at Andy and Jo's? Why didn't you tell me? They could have stayed with me, but I didn't even know you were on leave till I saw your mum at brett's party - felt pretty stupid. Thanks for that. When are you back?
"Fatboy" – 12/05/16, 11.27am: Thought I should warn u annie called yesterday. She didn't seem 2 happy. Looks like sum1s in TROUBLE! lol
"Sally" - 13/05/16, 02.22pm: Seriously boss, call me.
"Fatboy" - 16/05/16, 10.25pm: Oi, bro, answer ur damn phone. Didn't agree to keep ur kids 4ever u know! When r u coming 2 pick them up again? :-p
"Sally" - 16/06/16, 10.28pm: Greg, you ok? Haven't heard from you in awhile.
"Sally" - 17/06/16, 07.49pm: Look, you muppeting piece of arse, I bloody need your help. I've got four murders, a vanishing diplomat, and a death by intoxication that's dodgy as fuck but there's no evidence. I'm only asking for ten minutes out of your sodding mediterranean cruise holiday, you bloody great twat. Call me? Please? Xx Sal.
He snorted a laugh, switching the phone back off again before he could be tempted to reply. Mycroft had been pretty firm on that point. Even reading the things was probably cause for Holmesian scowling and insults to his intelligence – which was one of the very good reasons Greg didn't intend on telling him.
"What's so amusing?" Molly asked.
"My inbox. Sally seems to be doing her nut running around trying to do my job for me."
"I can't say I'm sorry. She's not exactly nice to you most of the time."
Greg shrugged a little awkwardly. "Ah, she's ok. More bark than bite really."
In truth, Sally was one of his closer friends. She had a foul mouth, was liberal in her use of catty nicknames, enjoyed winding people up, and had a love life that was far too complicated for her own good, but he was fond of her. She'd drop everything and drive halfway across town if he ever needed her, and had proven it on more than one occasion.
"Sounds like she's just got stuck with a bunch of nasty cases," he offered, a little lamely. "She's actually quite –"
"Greg," Molly interrupted. "Have a look at this."
She'd picked up the laptop again while Greg had been reading messages, and now she indicated the screen with her tilted chin. Awkwardly, Greg made his way over and perched on the edge of the bed beside her.
The laptop screen showed a page from John's blog – the entry that Molly had been typing, accompanied by a photo of Mary, Greg, Molly and Billie in front of the Winter Palace. Greg blinked.
"When did you get so good at photoshopping?"
Molly flushed. "Um… When I was about fourteen and used to stick myself into pictures with Leonardo DiCaprio actually."
Greg choked. "Seriously?"
"'Fraid so. But that's not what I wanted you to look at. Here –" she motioned to one of the comments. Under the uninformative username 'sKukzz16' was a link containing a bad photo of Mycroft and the comment 'a case for the great detective?'
They exchanged a frown, and Greg shrugged. Molly clicked the link.
The page redirected to a video on the BBC news site. A middle-aged presenter sat behind a desk, speaking rapidly into the camera:
"New Scotland Yard confirmed today that there has been no progress in the case of missing British diplomat Edward Ellis."
Behind him, the hugely magnified photo of Mycroft flashed up on the screen. It was a very bland, office-standard photograph of a man in a business suit, taken in poor lighting and rather pixelated. It showed a considerably younger Mycroft, his hair thicker and more reddish, his face less lined. If she hadn't known it was him, Molly would have struggled to make the connection.
"Mr Ellis, an undersecretary at the foreign office, was last seen eighteen days ago when he boarded a plane from Heathrow. The home office confirmed today that his destination was not New York City, as previously stated, but North Korea. The North Korean regime under Kim Jong-Un is notoriously secretive, but officials released a statement today in which they claimed that Mr Ellis has never entered Pyongyang. The case is being overseen by Detective Sally Donovan of New Scotland Yard:"
The video cut to a mid-shot of Sally's face. In the background, they could make out one of the yard's conference rooms.
"Mr Ellis was last seen boarding a flight at Heathrow on May the first," Sally's voice reported. "His assistant has stated that his intended destination was New York City. He was not reported missing until late on Friday, twelve days after the last sighting at Heathrow. The investigation by Scotland Yard is ongoing, and we are in consultation with MI6. We are now in a position to confirm that Mr Ellis did not arrive in New York, and we have reason to believe that he is currently in North Korea. In light of this, his disappearance is now being treated as suspicious. Owing to the generosity of Lady Jessica Carlisle, considerable private funds have been made available for the search. Government agents under the direction of MI6 are currently on Mr Ellis's trail, and we have reason to believe that his life may be in danger. We ask any members of the public who may have information regarding his movements over the last eighteen days to come forward."
The video cut to black.
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"Oh, good girl," Mycroft breathed.
Greg frowned. "Sorry?"
They were in Mycroft and Irene's room, the laptop open on Molly's knees and the other three clustered behind her. Molly paused the video on the image on Sally Donovan's scowling face.
Mycroft, oddly, looked pleased.
"My assistant, Miss Grey. This has her clever little fingers all over it. Government agents on the trail… Reason to believe my life is in danger. It's a warning."
Greg blinked. "Um… Not that reassuring, actually.
"And nothing we didn't know," Irene pointed out drily.
"Untrue. We know that the Service and the Agency have allied against us, something which was mere supposition until now. We know that Miss Grey suspects Lady Carlisle of orchestrating events – a guess, certainly, but a good one, I think. Perhaps most importantly, we know now that we have an ally – two, rather: my assistant, and your Sergeant Donovan." He nodded at Greg.
"Vanishing diplomat," Greg muttered.
"I'm sorry?"
"Sally. She said she had a case with a vanishing diplomat. It struck me as weird because it's not normally our division."
"Seems like she tells you a lot," Molly mumbled.
Greg shot her a look, noting her pinkened cheeks. "Ah. I guess…"
"I do hope Anthea knows what she's doing," Irene remarked. "I don't imagine that Lady Carlisle will be especially pleased, do you?"
Mycroft frowned.
"Let us hope that they do not pay too dearly for their boldness."
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Back in their own room, Greg prepared for bed, the full awkwardness of the situation striking him anew. He shut himself in the tiny bathroom to change, half-hoping that Molly would be asleep by the time he emerged. Briefly, he contemplated nipping down to the bar again, but supposed that it would be a little too obvious an avoidance tactic. It wasn't that he didn't like Molly: the trouble was that he did.
Molly was already beneath the covers, a book balanced between hand and pillow. If asked, Greg would've expected it to be something lurid and girly with a brooding, tight-shirted hero on the front cover. Instead, she was reading All Quiet on the Western Front. He didn't know what to think about that.
Half-heartedly, he wondered if he could get away with sleeping on top of the covers again, but that would probably lead to awkward questions. He shuffled himself into the free side of the bed, trying not to think about the way Annie used to press her cold toes against his calves and reach under his shirt to warm her hands on his belly; about the way her breasts had felt pressed against his spine, or the way he'd ended up with a face full of long, sweet-smelling brown hair every time she turned over.
"Are you ok?" Molly asked.
"What? Yeah, I'm fine."
"It's just – I thought you might be worried about Sally."
"Oh. Well. Guess I am a bit. She's a tough cookie though, she'll be alright."
"So are you two, um…"
It took Greg a moment to work out what she was asking.
"What? Me and – no! God, she'd probably kill me."
"Right, sorry." It might have been his imagination, but he thought Molly sounded a little happier.
"I just thought – well, you seem close."
"Yeah, no. I mean, we're friends, but just friends. Like John and Sherlock." He paused. "Actually on second thought, forget that. That was a really bad example."
Molly giggled.
"I'm glad," she said. And then, taking a deep breath: "Because – well – you might've guessed. But I really like you Greg."
Greg was mortified to find himself flushing furiously. "Um, yep. Kinda gathered that. A bit."
Molly giggled again. "You know, I'm not an expert or anything, but usually guys make some sort of reciprocal statement round about now."
"Oh, right. Well, yeah. I do too, obviously."
Molly exhaled in relief.
"Thank god for that," she said.
And then, somehow, she was kissing him, and Greg was lying flat on his back with a woman's slight weight pressing him down for the first time in – God – years. Molly's mouth was warm and gentle and her skin was softer than silk, and her little hands were creeping up under his t-shirt in exactly the way that Annie's used to. He shuddered, pushing the thought aside. Molly seemed to take the shiver as encouragement, for she tugged the t-shirt up beneath his arms until he raised himself enough for her to draw it over his head. Her hands roamed over his torso, kneading at the muscles in his chest and biceps, and he felt her grin against his mouth.
He was ashamed at the strength of his own reaction. He found himself tugging at Molly's clothing, bypassing the buttons of her pyjama top completely to tear it off over her head. The body revealed beneath it was slim and smooth and young, her skin creamy and supple, almost girlish. She was even tinier than he'd thought, so tiny that his hands almost circled her waist. Narrow hips; shallow belly-button; small, pert breasts, like Annie's had been before the boys were born. She laughed aloud at his apparent awe, leaning down to kiss him again, and their faces were curtained in long, sweet-smelling brown hair. He shivered again, bucking involuntarily against her; and God, the crotch of her pyjamas was wet already and his boxers were wet too, and how had that even happened?
Molly's hands were fumbling between them, fighting to rid him of his shorts, her efforts made more difficult by the way their hips had fused tight, him pressed half inside of her already. And God, this wasn't him. Greg Lestrade didn't do things like this, had never in his life jumped straight from stumbling declarations to all out sex within a matter of moments, without even dinner or a bunch of roses or a movie. But Molly was rocking into him, her tongue curling against his own, little mewling noises rising from her throat. And Greg was abruptly, physically aware of the fact that it had been years, actual years since he'd had this, and his brain was almost overwhelmed in the rush of testosterone, the fierce temptation to do what he wanted to for once in his life and to hell with the consequences...
And then, quite as suddenly, he knew he couldn't do it. All of the reasons he had listed to John came back to him in a rush, and Christ, what in hell had he been thinking?
"Mol," he murmured, pulling away from her. "Molly, stop. This is a bad idea."
Molly raised her head, her eyes wide, her face falling already into lines of distress.
"What do you mean?"
Her mouth was very pink, and her cheeks were flushed. Greg looked away.
"It's…" he stumbled over the words, and he raised his hands to her upper arms, rubbing gently but with inherent warning. "Look… I like you. I do. But we can't just do this. I can't."
He sighed, and sat up, putting a little space between them. Molly wrapped her arms about herself, flushing now with self-consciousness, and Greg felt guilt strike at him, hot and hard and bitter.
"Mol," he said again, softly. "You have to understand, I'm not – I can't be a one night stand kind of guy. I just can't. Look… If you want to do this… If you really want to, then there are things we'd need to talk about – work, and my kids, and my ex-wife, and – well – the Sherlock thing, and the age difference, and where you even see this going..."
Molly looked down at him. Her face was pinched with resignation, but she wasn't crying.
"Ok," she said. "So we go slow. It's not a problem, Greg. I can do that."
But Greg was shaking his head.
"I don't want to lead you on," he said seriously, and realised as he said it that it was the absolute truth. "You're too good a friend for that. And it's not the time to be starting something when we're on the wrong side of the world chasing after Sherlock bloody Holmes."
"Ok," Molly said, in a small voice. Her hands clutched once at his waist, and fell lax. "Ok, I get it."
She slipped off him, her face turned slightly away. She found her pyjama jacket, half inside-out and twisted around the buttons. Her hands shook as she righted the fabric, the flush rising up her neck the longer she struggled. Eventually, she managed to pull it over her head, arms fighting through the tangled sleeves. He caught one last glimpse of her breasts, lifted by the stretch of her arms, before the fabric covered them once more.
"I'm sorry."
"It's ok. Really."
"I wish I hadn't –"
"No, it's fine. You're probably right. It's my fault anyway."
"It's not your fault," Greg told her fiercely. Guilt rose in his throat like bile. He wanted to wrap his arms around her and press his face against her hair. "And I'm not saying no, ok? I'm just saying I want to think about it."
Molly nodded, her chin trembling. There were still two spots of colour high on her cheekbones, and her eyes were over-bright.
Greg cleared his throat. He swung his feet off the side of the bed and bent down to pick up his t-shirt.
"I'm going to have a shower, then I'm going to go and get one of the others to switch rooms with me, ok?"
Molly nodded tightly in answer.
He paused in the doorway of the bathroom, feeling wretched, yet unable to think of any better course of action.
"I am sorry, Mol."
"Yeah. I know."
"Who do you want, Irene or Mycroft?"
Molly gave a choked sort of sniffle. "Honestly?"
Greg's mouth twitched in an awkward smile. "Not much of a choice, I know."
"I can definitely think of better room mates." She gave him a wan smile.
Greg turned away, his hand on the bathroom door.
"Greg?" Her face was still flushed, but her voice was low and steady.
"Yeah?"
She hesitated.
"Nothing. Sorry."
He tilted his head in her direction and nodded, just once. Then he stepped through into the bathroom and pulled the door to behind him.
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A/N: I know, I know, I'm so mean to poor Molly... I can only promise that it'll all work out ok in the end. Also, Greg has serious ex-wife issues, so... yeah. Please drop me a review and brighten a poor author's day. :-) Next up: Mycroft has a plan, Irene has a way into Guantanamo, and Sally and Anthea may have bitten off more than they can chew...