Molly stepped into Mycroft Holmes' lavishly furnished office. She whistled as she looked around. His office was larger than her flat!
"Hello, Dr. Hooper, what can I do for you?"
She smiled tightly at the stoic man sitting behind his large oak desk. He belonged in another century. In fact, the whole room belonged in a different era like when Britain was an empire with tentacles that spanned the globe. She could envision him as a steward of the mighty crown. Heck, she could even believe things were still that way.
"Hello, Mr. Holmes, I am sorry to bother you. I've been looking at the files Anthea brought me and I have a theory . . ."
He rose as she approached and gestured at one of his leather guest chairs. "Really? Please, do sit down. Do you need anything? Coffee? Tea? If you have solved this whole Sherrinford business, I'll have the queen bestow the title of dame on you."
She laughed nervously as she sat down. "Ah, I'm good, actually."
He twitched his brows. "Fair enough. You may earn it yet on your own."
She gave him a quizzical look. "Um, sure."
He returned to his seat. "So, what have you hypothesized?"
She cleared her throat. "Well, I started to see a pattern in the types of tests and treatments Sherrinford manipulated through those requisitions and I believe . . ."
Before she could finish her thought her phone interrupted her by alerting with a message, then again when she tried to continue speaking, and once more as she closed her mouth. Just after that, Mycroft's cell rattled on the desk not once, but also three times. He narrowed his eyes.
"Normally, I would ignore this," he muttered as he picked up his mobile, "but I do not believe in coincidences."
She nodded quickly. "Neither do I."
Molly almost tore her bag as she jerked it open and yanked out her phone. Her heart started hammering in her chest as soon as she read the messages.
Help me, Miss Molly.
I'm dying without you.
Be a good girl now and do what you're told. – S
She covered her mouth as she gasped. Her hands started shaking so violently that she almost dropped her mobile in her lap.
"Oh, God," she whispered.
Mycroft frowned as he read his messages. His lips parted.
"What does yours say?" He asked after a stunned moment of silence.
She couldn't repeat it. She gulped back tears and shoved her cell in his direction. He scanned it quickly. The crease between his brows deepened as he handed it back to her.
"Damn."
"Wh-what did he send you?"
"Directions, but I don't think you should . . . "
Molly jumped up and snatched his phone from his grasp.
Call off your hounds.
Send her to 627 Grantham alone and give her space. A mile perimeter should do.
Or I kill him! Your call. - S
Molly tossed his phone on his desk and spun away. She needed to get to Sherlock. Before she could take a single step, Mycroft's hand fell on her shoulder.
"Wait, Molly!"
It was strange to hear her addressed so familiarly by Mycroft. She turned back to him but her eyes were so clouded by moisture she could barely make out his features.
"Let me go!" She wiped away tears.
"Dr. Hooper . . . you of all people know you will not win by playing by his rules. Please, we have precious little time. Tell me what you learned about Sherrinford. This may be our only chance to stop him."
Of course 627 Grantham Street was a poorly lit building in a dingy part of London. It was like Sherrinford followed some sort of creeptastic movie script in luring her to her doom at sunset. Molly approached the front door of the one-time shop cautiously. What an oddity the place was, a single story stone structure wedged between two Victorian homes that was nothing to look at except she knew it was very, very old by the rough stone foundation.
"Hooper's Baked Goods," she mumbled as she read the faded stenciled lettering on the metal shutters covering the window. "Perfect."
She had never heard of this bakery but then, she wasn't surprised. It looked as if it had been out of business for some time. She pulled at the door handle and discovered that it was unlocked. She swallowed nervously and stepped into the shop.
There was little to see once she was in the front counter and display area. Time had frozen there as if it was a capsule from a couple decades ago. A small cathode-ray tube television sat on the counter next to a large, knobby cash register. Both were covered in a layer of dust. Faded signs hung on the wall with prices for goods that in today's money seemed outrageously cheap. She stood there a moment and looked around, unsure of what to do next. Then she noticed a faint glow of light under the door that led deeper into the building. She tried this door and found it unlocked as well so she continued on.
A narrow hall lit by a single, flickering overhead bulb led past an old two piece bathroom to another door. She shook her head. How many doors would she have to go through? This had to be it, she thought, as the light was much brighter beneath it. With determination, she pushed through the final barrier and saw her consulting detective. Air she'd disturbed when she opened the door ruffled his hair.
Sherlock kneeled on top of something with his head hanging down in the middle of the empty heart of the old bakery. Most of the equipment had long been removed. She could just see a bit of his profile. She held her breath a moment afraid of what she might see. Was he hurt? Fear caused a flush of adrenaline through her body. She started shaking as she approached him.
Sherlock's head came up and swivelled on his neck towards her. A cry caught in her throat. She was not prepared to see a man who looked as if he were meeting his end. His flesh was colorless like a discarded advertisement left in the sun too long. Lines pulled at every corner of his face. When their eyes met, his bottom lip trembled. His lids were red rimmed as if he had been crying. She didn't know what had happened but she felt his pain lance through to her very soul. He dropped his head again briefly and squeezed his eyes shut. Tears fell from each of his tightly closed lids to the floor where they wetted the concrete floor. She couldn't breathe. Little pricks of pain exploded throughout her chest.
"Oh, God, w-why are you here?" He asked with a sob.
Molly held her hand to her chest. She wanted to fly to him but something was amiss. He kneeled on a large electronic scale, the kind used to measure bags of flour. The indicator behind him showed his weight at 185 lbs.
She approached him cautiously. "Sherlock, what has he done to you?"
He looked uncomfortable. Sweat beaded his brow.
His voice was a strangled whisper. "I-I can't bear it. You shouldn't have come. Has Mycroft n-no sense at all?"
Molly dropped to her knees in a reflection of his pose. "Of course I would come. E-every time . . . always, always . . ."
"Arg, don't you get it?" His eyes opened and pierced her straight through. "He counted on that."
Molly studied his pose. Oh, this was a message for her, she knew. Sherlock on his knees paying penance for his sins. She reached out to touch him but stopped. Her hands hovered near his face.
"What is this? What am I looking at?"
His eyes flicked downwards. "The scale is a trigger Molly. If it drops under 100 pounds, a bomb beneath it detonates."
Molly felt her heart rate quicken. "And the kneeling?"
"He said that he would see if I stood up. I assume there is a camera around here somewhere watching us. How else would he know when you arrived? God, really, you have to go. I'm surprised he hasn't detonated this already. Please Go, Molly, get out of here!"
She shook her head. She thought this would be easy, that she had figured out Sherrinford's plans, but now she was not so sure. If she was wrong, they both could die.
"N-No, not without you . . ."
A couple of sharp claps sounded to their left. Molly looked up into the gleeful, yet reptilian gaze of Sherrinford Holmes standing across the room. He sauntered to within about ten feet of them and paused.
A crocodile-like smile spread across his face. "Oh, Miss Molly, you have not disappointed me at all!"
She hated this man, truly hated him. She scrambled to her feet. Sherlock grabbed her forearm and held her back.
"Molly, don't."
The numbers on the indicator behind Sherlock fluctuated. Her breath caught. She glowered at the black suited figure of Sherrinford. "Stop this! Let him up!"
He twitched his brows up a couple of times and smiled. "Oh, I don't think so. You have no idea how happy it makes me to see him that way."
She felt hot all over. She thought she would be afraid of this man but instead, she was just really pissed. She tried to jerk her arm out of Sherlock's grasp with the intent of stalking up to Sherrinford and slapping the smirk off his face, but the flash of something shiny in his hand gave her pause.
He waved his handgun around with a flourish. "Ah, ah, ah! Just stay right there. I'm going to kill you, of course, but I'd rather not just yet. I want to play one more game."
"Brother, l-listen to me," Sherlock said quickly, "your issue is not with Molly. It's with me. Please, let her go. For the love of God, let her go. I . . . I beg you . . ."
Sherrinford frowned and gestured to Molly. "I have an issue with her! Of course I have a fucking issue with her. She's a fucking garbled line of code I can't decipher."
Molly watched as he pointed his gun at Sherlock. "And you need to be quiet! I will splatter her brains all over your stupid coat. I swear it on my life."
A tremor pulsed through Sherrinford's brow. His hold tightened on his gun but she saw him draw his finger from the trigger. He swung the gun back in her direction.
"Truth or dare?" He hissed.
She was shocked into silence for a moment.
"TRUTH OR DARE?!" He screeched.
Molly looked down at Sherlock. His lips were pressed in a tight, thin line. Her eyes flitted back to Sherrinford.
"T-truth," she stuttered.
He chuckled. "Oh, yes, that's what I thought you would say."
"Get on with it, then!"
Sherrinford paced backwards a few steps. "Alright, ooh, I'm all a-tingles! So, Molly, tell me, what was the first thing Sherlock ever said to you?"
Molly bit her lip. She would never forget the first words he uttered in her presence. Of course, it was something callous and oh so typically Sherlock.
"He said . . . he said my lab was almost as much of a disaster as my taste in clothing."
Sherrinford threw his head back and laughed. "Awww, how did that make you feel?"
Molly saw Sherlock cringe out of the corner of her eye. She lifted her chin.
"Nevermind," she said softly, "and that's not how we play the game. It's your turn. Truth or dare?"
He raised a brow and narrowed his eyes at her. "Truth."
Molly clicked her molars together. For a moment she couldn't think of anything she wanted to ask. Then a question popped into her mind.
"Who was Magnussen to you?"
Sherlock's voice was a warning. "Molly . . ."
Sherrinford ran his tongue over his teeth.
"Well, this is getting tetchy fast. Hmm, Magnussen was my information broker," He looked at Sherlock. "What a fucking waste that was, little brother! He wasn't just a blackmailer, his knowledge was priceless and you just blew him away for some insignificant army doctor and his even more inconsequential wife."
Sherlock scoffed. "You know very well Mycroft figured out he was working for you after the whole Lady Smallwood affair. You really couldn't resist meddling in governmental affairs, could you? You practically authored Magnussen's death warrant yourself."
Sherrinford strode to Sherlock in three steps and pressed the gun against his temple. "And you had to be the despatcher? I have to admit you surprised me on that. I didn't anticipate how easily you could abandon your morals."
Molly looked back and forth between the brothers. Again, Molly observed Sherrinford's finger retract from the trigger as he threatened Sherlock. His shoulders drooped. For all his bluster, he seemed to be fighting fatigue. Sherlock was not in much better shape. His face was waxen and drawn.
"Mycroft asked y-you to kill Magnussen?" Molly asked Sherlock in a small voice.
"Yes."
Sherrinford pushed at Sherlock's head with his gun. "Did he now?"
Sherlock's eyes were wet again. He nodded with the gun to his temple. Molly was livid at every other Holmes male right then but also beyond heartbroken. How awful for him. How goddamned unfair to be pressed upon to carry out Mycroft's dirty work and then have to live with the death of that terrible man on his conscience. Sherlock hadn't been the same since around that time. He'd been dark and tortured and made some awful, awful decisions. Even now, he could barely meet her gaze because he was wracked with guilt.
"But, you didn't have to do it, Sherlock," She whispered. "You could have turned Mycroft down."
He swallowed. "I did. Several times."
"Then how did he convince you. . ." Molly dropped to her knees in front of him again. She desperately wanted to smack away Sherrinford's gun but wouldn't risk her detective. "Please tell me."
Sherlock's lips trembled with a spasm. His bloodshot eyes met hers wide and luminous with the certainty he had all but lost.
"It was you, Molly. It was always about you."