Chapter 4: An Old Friend Visits
"Well look who it is!"
John heard the voice calling over the crowd. He stopped his marching down cluttered city streets to search for the source, finding no one until he turned to continue his aimless wandering. His forehead nearly crashed with dark hair and darker eyes, Jim's smile shockingly close. The tall man was impeccably dressed, his hair slicked back and his shoes oiled.
"Oh, uh, hi." John held out his hand awkwardly. "What's it been? Two, three—"
"Oh dear, you've forgotten who I am." Jim's mouth dropped in mock hurt, a grin quickly splitting to reveal shiny white teeth. With an exaggerated wink, he swung his arm around John's shoulder. "Sherlock says you're looking for a job. Can I be of assistance here?"
John wrinkled his brow in confusion, looking over Jim's tailored black suit. "Where on earth do you work to afford that getup? And how do you know Sherlock?"
"Why, you introduced us, Johnny boy, don't you remember?" Jim patted his chest, steering him around a corner. "You brought him to my house. We've been good buddies since."
"And he sent you after me for a job? I've not seen you around the apartment." John quirked his lip at the thought. "Excuse me, but where do you work again?"
"I work at La Mela just down the way here. Middle of the street, can't miss it. Prettiest girls in town right out the door, there." Jim pointed a long finger towards impossibly tall, swinging hipped women. They were waving in men whose eyes barely budged from the low-cut apple-dotted apron and tiny skirts they wore, the trays in their hands balancing bright red and green shots.
"You work at a bar? And you can afford that?" John looked back over the suit, probably some expensive brand he wouldn't know the name of.
"Well, it's not your average working man's watering hole. Our customers tend to be a little looser with the green, with a good deal more to pull from, if you catch my meaning?"
John raised an eyebrow. "No, not really."
"Only the richest of rich can afford La Mela, Johnny boy." Jim patted him on the back, corralling him past the giggling women and through the swinging glass doors.
Everything was dim, the music a low thrum of lazy energy and the shadowed faces of waiters appearing and disappearing without intrusion. Smoke slithered through the air in a suffocating cloud of tobacco and something sickly sweet just underneath. The thick air made his head spin. Bottles glittered in beautiful shapes and soft colors behind the bar, the mirror backdrop making them seem to go on forever. John swung his head around to look for Jim and found him still standing behind him, one hand lightly on his shoulder.
"You could work here and make good tips. We have all kinds of opportunities available for a man as capable as the infamous John Hooper." Jim grinned and plucked a drink from a passing tray, taking a long and slow sip from a crystal glass, his eyes connected to John's.
"Aren't you working or something?" John blinked slowly, clearing the sleepy haze the thick fog left in his mind. "And what do you mean infamous? What has Sherlock been saying about me?"
"Oh, he does blather on once his defenses are down. He's told me all about your little adventures, and your vital role in all his heroics. I could certainly use a man with such discreet capabilities in my line of work."
"What exactly is that line of work again? Do you own this place?" John looked at the other servers. Jim was certainly the most dressed.
"Oh heavens no. No, no, no. I work behind the bar." Jim waved at the gruff man behind the counter counting out change, who only scowled and lowered his head. "I give medicine to all the weary wanderers of the world."
John's stomach rolled. He took a step back, forcing a tight smile. "I'm not in the business of medicine, I'm afraid."
"Oh, of course! Alcohol isn't for everyone." Jim gave another wink.
Before John realized what he was doing Jim led him back to the street. The sun was too bright and the people were too loud, after the quiet, smothering darkness of La Mela. He waited for Jim to excuse himself or depart, but instead John found himself being led along again. This time they moved in the direction of his and Sherlock's apartment, though he couldn't remember Jim ever being in the building.
"So, if you won't take this job, what would you like to do? I have several contacts. I can get you most any job in the city you'd like, for the right price." He let out a sharp laugh. John shifted away from the hands leading him towards his own home.
"Price? I didn't ask for your help. I haven't seen you in four years, now. There's no reason for you to help me." John sniffed, shoving his hands in his pockets. "I don't need no favors anyhow. I'm thinking I'll just join up in the Army and get myself along on that. They'll pay for most any education I need."
"All those faraway places? Nowhere near dear Molly, or Momma or Sherlock? Won't they all miss you now?" Jim swept ahead, cutting the way to his building through the crowd to hold open the door for him.
John harrumphed. "I don't think they'll be bothered by a couple of years away."
"Oh, now, that's not true. Is it?" Jim stuck his lip out, hopping up the steps two at a time. "I think Billy would miss you most of all."
"Billy? You know, I rightly don't give a—" His door swung open, and there stood Molly with her foot tapping impatiently against his wood floors. "Shit."
"Are you serious, John? Where were you today?" Her voice was tight, her eyes red and her hands shaking.
He ducked his head, avoiding her piercing glare. "I went out to find a job, Molly. Honest, I just went to check out a few places."
"Amazing, isn't it?" She gave a sharp, dry laugh, her arms swinging out in frustration. "You always seem to magically realize you need a job on Tuesdays. Strange, that." Her voice grew shrill, broken by sniffling as she wiped tears from her eyes.
"I'm sorry, Molly. Really I am. I forgot is all." He glanced up to see her lips pursed and tears tracking silently down her cheeks.
"You forget every time you're supposed to watch her. I can't take care of her by myself, John. She's getting worse and I can't take it. I just need a break." She crossed her arms over her chest, cheeks burning red as she finally took notice of the stranger in the room. She glanced away, shrinking into embarrassment. "Can't you come take care of her tonight? Please? I've got a big test tomorrow. I need to study, and you know how she gets."
"Look, Molly. I don't have time to watch her tonight. Mary has some sushi place she wanted to try out. Besides, you know Momma prefers having you around." He took a deep breath and flashed her a big smile. "Come on, I'll take care of her Friday. You can take a day for yourself, maybe go out with some friends? Give the studying a break for a change?"
Molly bit her lip. Her quick, agitated movements slowed down while she mulled over what he said. By the time she moved on to twiddling with her bracelet, he knew he'd won. "Ok."
"Thanks, Molly. You're the best." He ruffled her hair, flopping down on his couch and flipping through the channels. "Jim, you can sit down while you wait on Sherlock. Or whatever you're doing."
"John, you have to promise you'll be there Friday." Molly spoke from her spot in the middle of his living room.
"Yeah, of course." He leaned back in his chair, resting his hands behind his head.
"JOHN." His name cut across the sound of the television, snapping his attention back to her. "I mean it. You have to promise me you'll be there."
"Of course I'll be there. I promise, Molly." He grinned at her. He noticed Jim standing by the door, eyes glued to his sister. "Go on, now. I'll see you."
"Ok. I'll see you Friday then." She started to head out the door, only to be stopped by a hand at her elbow.
"You're Molly Hooper? Lord Mercy, how the awkward have grown." His eyes swept over her baggy sweater and ponytail, pausing to slide over her jawline and pointed lips. "You've got a new look, haven't you?"
"U-um, no. N-not really." She smoothed her hands carefully over her sweater. "I'm sorry, who are you?"
"Why, I'm hurt! The Hoopers are not an observant lot, are you?" His fingers slid down her arm to grip one of her hands and lift it to his lips. "James Moriarty, but you can call me Jim."
Molly's blush deepened. "Oh. Oh yeah, I remember you now."
"Last time we met you were a scared little thing. Not much change there, is there?" He tipped her face up, fingertips giving a gentle pressure to lift her eyes to his. "Everything else has though. Look at that skin. And that figure!" His other hand lifted her arm away from her body.
"Ever the charmer, aren't we?" Sherlock stood in the doorway, blue eyes resting lazily on Jim's still hovering hands. Molly jerked her chin away, eyes averted to the floor.
"I was just admiring your pretty friend."
"Of course you were." Large sweatpants and a dirty hoodie replaced the fine suit in her field of vision, and she nearly took a step back as Sherlock brushed against her. She forced herself to look up into stormy eyes before he stepped around her and disappeared down the hallway.
"Well, that was a bit awkward, wasn't it?" Jim looked her over and tilted his head, mouth dropping open in disbelief. "Oh, Lord, did that finally happen? Are you two finally doing the horizontal tango?" He gave her a thumbs up, nodding with a grin on his face. "Nice, lovely. I knew it was going to happen. Sherlock hasn't mentioned you though. Why's he keeping you secret?"
"Oh, no! We d-don't—I mean, he wouldn't. Not with me." She looked down again, twisting the bracelet at her wrist nervously.
"But you would with him?"
"We're not like that. He's just… We're just friends. I experiment with him." Her eyes widened, and she shook her head fiercely. "No, no. I mean, he tutors me in history, is all. And we- we just do chemistry." She paused, a nervous smile twitching across her cheeks. "I mean, you know, chemistry experiments. For class."
"So you're not …" he swung his hips around, arms up like he was holding a woman. "No smooching when John's not looking?"
"No. No! Of course not. I'm his best friend's sister." She walked further into the apartment, kicking her shoes off. John gave a huff and glared at her while she invaded his couch.
"Well, I've no such qualms. Still, Sherlock's experiments are rather personal. Are you sure he's not nursing some Molly love?" Jim wiggled his eyebrows at her, prompting a small giggle.
"I'm certain of it. He hardly talks to me much, outside of class." She flashed a big grin at John. "Or when he and John need a diversion for some trouble they've managed to find. It's no wonder you can't get a job, John."
"Yeah, yeah. I'll have you know, a lot of that trouble pays good money."
"I don't think pays is the word, John. People usually know when they've paid someone." Molly grinned at him.
"I only take from bad men. Not like they ever notice." He laughed, kicking his feet back up between them. "It's how I've managed this long."
"Well, I wish I'd get some of that money every now and then. I've earned it. I don't know why you can't just take Mary on your little adventures." Molly shuffled away from Jim.
"What kind of diversions do you provide? Surely you get some compensation for your part in the plan?" Jim said, incredulous.
"Oh, no, it's no big deal. I'll just pretend I've lost a dog, or dress up and knock into someone. Nothing ever too terribly difficult." Molly laughed it off. "I'm sure Mary would be better at it, to be honest. I'm always shy and stammering."
"She is, but she's not always available. Besides, John doesn't like putting her in danger." Sherlock stepped out from the hallway, showered and changed. His curls dripped a dark, wet stain onto his shirt. He flopped onto the couch, narrowly avoiding Jim, arms slung onto the back of the couch. He leaned his head back, and turned his head to her. "You're wearing that ridiculous sweater again. You wear that sweater only when something bad has happened. What is it, what's the matter?"
"It's not ridiculous." She fiddled with her bracelet again, eyes holding steady contact with his. Jim glanced between the two of them, a slow smile creeping across his face.
"Molly Hooper." He face her with wide eyes, hand clutching hers where it still held her bracelet. "Go out with me Friday. I'll take you to the Theatre, and to dinner."
She nibbled her lip, glancing quickly at Sherlock. He stared at her through narrowed lids, mouth set in a thin line. Jim stared at her hand still clasping hers. He stuck out his lip in a pout, eyes going wide like a puppy's. "Oh, come now Molly. Just one date, and if you don't love it you don't have to bother with me again."
She looked around, wondering if anyone was going to raise any objections. John looked as if he were trying to murder Jim with his eyes, but didn't say anything. She looked one more time at Sherlock and found he had closed his eyes and was rubbing small circles on his temple.
"Come on, Molly. Don't tell me you have to get Big Brother's permission. I know you don't have plans."
She blushed and pulled her hand away from his grasp. "Yeah, sure. I mean, I can't imagine it'll hurt to get out of the house."
"It's a date then." He leapt up, waving enthusiastically first to Sherlock and then to John. "Dress your best, Molly. I'll be by to pick you up at seven Friday night." He practically skipped from the apartment, turning to wave at her one last time before disappearing behind the thunking door.
"What was he on about? Sherlock, I thought he was coming to visit you? He didn't even say anything to you." John grumbled, eyebrows pulled together in irritation.
"Hm." Sherlock lifted his head and turned to Molly. He looked far away, his eyes watching her without seeming to see anything at all. He turned away again, dropping his head back on his ratty couch. "Yes, he did. He practically wrote a book. Did you see it?"
"A book? What are you talking about? He barely looked at you. And what are you doing telling people I'm looking for a job?" John turned his irritation towards the television, flipping through the channels rapidly before tossing the remote onto the coffee table. It slid across the glass and thumped onto the floor at Molly's feet.
"You are looking for a job." Sherlock didn't even bother to move his head again.
"Yes, well, you don't have to go talking about me to strangers. I can handle my own."
"Do you have a job?" Sherlock smirked.
"No." John scowled, slumping in his chair. "Doesn't mean you have to go asking strangers for favors."
Sherlock shot up, ignoring John's muttering. "Why are you wearing that hideous sweater? You wear it only when you've got bruises, but you weren't flinching when he was touching you. It's unlikely you've rid yourself of the habit of fear, so why then the contradictory signals?"
Molly frowned and stood up, moving towards the door. "You know, I just realized Momma needs me at home. I better get back."
Sherlock jumped up beside her, fingers pinching the bridge of his nose while he swayed. He balanced himself and shot her a look. "Sat up too quickly. I'll come with you."
"Momma doesn't like boys at the house." John interjected from his spot on the couch.
"She won't know I'm there. Besides, don't you have that dinner thing with Mary?"
"That's not for another hour. And I don't exactly like the thought of you skulking around my mother's house like some hormonal teenager."
"I'm a grown man, hardly hormonal, and certainly not intimidated or bothered by what you think." Sherlock watched Molly, pupils contracted as his eyes studied her sweater. She furrowed her brow at his attention, fidgeting when his gaze lingered too long. Finally, he looked back up to her face, a smirk tugging at his lips. "What do you think, Molly?"
"Fine. Come on. But if she catches you, I'm not keeping her from calling the cops." She poked him, but he didn't laugh at her, just continued to stare at her with a frown.
"Oi, why do you do that?" Why don't you just talk to people like normal?" John shuddered and turned away with an exasperated sigh. "You're creeping me out staring at her like that. Stop it."
"You didn't care when Jim was practically hanging all over her." Sherlock spat over his shoulder, grabbing his coat as he headed towards the door.
"He was not," Molly hissed, crossing her arms across her chest.
"He might as well have been." Sherlock sneered, imitating Jim in a mocking tone. "Oh Molly, let's go to the theatre."
"Why do you care anyway?" She shot back at him, expecting to hear some excuse about protecting his best friend's sister from nefarious advances. She was surprised when Sherlock stopped, head tilted to the side as he stared at her with both eyebrows raised.
"You two really are certainly related. Neither of you see anything at all." He continued past her, halfway down the hallway before she caught up to him.
"What do you mean?" She spoke to his back as he sped away from her again.
He ignored her question, not even glancing back at her as he exited the building. Within minutes he was lost in the crowd, and she was left to walk home on her own.
By the time she made it up the stairs she could already hear her mother's afternoon Guns 'n Roses blaring through the hallway. She stepped in, immediately turning the volume down and searching for the source of the continued screeching. She barely caught the words to Sweet Child O' Mine, the lyrics garbled and broken, from the back room.
"Momma? What are you doing? You know you can't play your music that loud." She pushed open Momma's door only to find her holding two dresses, one pressed against her chest. Her lips were bright red, eyes lined in blue and hair pulled back. A glass sat on her dresser, something brightly colored and icy half gone inside it. "Please tell me you didn't dress this way for your job interview."
"What do you think dear? A bit much?" Momma ignored her as she switched dresses, holding black sequins to her body with a coy look into the mirror. With a shake of her head she tossed the dress onto the bed and started stripping off a too small t-shirt.
"Is that mine?" Molly picked up the shirt tossed at her feet. Cherries and hearts dotted the once white fabric, slashes of blue and blobs of yellow staining the torso. "Why were you painting in my shirt?"
"I had to finish up a piece. Besides, you weren't wearing it." Momma twirled in her dress, tugging the neckline up.
"Yes, well, imagine that. I generally can't wear all my clothes at once." Molly sighed and dropped the shirt onto the other pile of her clothing her mom had ruined. "What are you getting ready for?"
"Don't you mean who? I met a man today while you were out. He wants to take me to dinner. He's a nice Policeman. I always did like a man in uniform." Momma gave Molly a sly wink, touching up on the bits of smudges on her mascara.
"I'm sure he's lovely. Is this dinner tonight?" Her mother nodded. "So what, a drink for courage?" Molly picked up the melting slush, taking a quick whiff. Not surprisingly, she caught rum and fruit juice.
"No, a drink to loosen up the old tongue. It's been a bit since I've gone out, you know." Momma snatched the drink back, taking a large sip. "Now hush up and help me pick out my shoes."
"No. I've got studying to do. Momma, don't drink anymore before you go out. You'll embarrass yourself." Molly sighed when Momma waved her off. "And remember, you've an interview tomorrow. Don't stay out too late."
She closed her eyes as she walked to her room. She could still hear her mother's singing when she closed the door. She fell onto the bed with a groan, reveling in the soft coolness of her covers.
"Your mother has a lovely singing voice."
She jumped up with a scream, her heart drumming loudly in her ears. She'd barely caught sight of Sherlock holding his finger to his lips when she realized her mother had stopped singing.
"Molly, dear, what happened?" She caught her mother's suspicion from the other side of the door. Sherlock blocked the entrance, foot held against the door and hands hovering over the knob.
"Nothing, Momma. Just saw a spider is all." Molly pressed her hand against her chest, taking deep breaths to calm herself. She waited to speak again until her mother was back to singing, and the shadow of her feet had moved on from her doorframe.
"A spider?" Sherlock hissed at her, locking the door carefully.
"Well, what else was I going to say? Besides, why did you hide? You could have not hidden in my room!"
"Where else was I going to hide?" He smirked at her, curling himself onto her bean bag and picking at the stray strings in the seams.
"How about not hiding at all? And stop doing that. You'll mess it up and then John will never let me live it down." She swatted at his hand, picking up his coat and resting it on her desk.
"He shouldn't have gotten you a present for a twelve year old then." Sherlock grinned, pulling at another string.
"I like it. It adds color to the room."
"It's pink. You'd have much rather red. Or yellow." He pointed to her bright yellow comforter.
"Well, you're just the expert then, aren't you?" She narrowed her eyes and crossed her legs, spreading out her books on her floor. She started flipping through her World History textbook, searching for the latest highlighted page. She waited for the comeback, but it never came. Instead, she looked up to see Sherlock staring at her again, frown set deeply into his face.
"Take off your sweater."
"What?" Her mouth went dry, her arms crossing over her chest before she caught herself.
Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Do you honestly think I'm going to do anything? I know you're wearing a shirt under there, you always do. Take off the sweater." He paused, cutting his eyes at her and putting on a determined expression. "Please."
"Why?" She rolled her bracelet between her fingers, biting her lip and staring at her history book.
"Are there more?" The harshness of his voice faded.
"More what?" She didn't look at him, even as she heard him move off the bean bag and cross the floor. "I'm fine."
"You don't have to tell me." He spoke, his knees poking into her peripheral vision. "But if you change your mind, I'd like to see the bruises. I've been tracking the severity of mistreatment over the years and have projected another escalation of violence within the next month or so. She's been through three cycles this year, and is nearing the eruption stage. Based on her be—"
"Dear Lord, Sherlock, if I show you the bruises will you stop talking about me like a test subject?" He nodded solemnly, sitting back on his heels.
She pulled off the sweater, careful to keep it from the tender flesh at her back and sides. She schooled her face into apathy and sat, perfectly still, as he looked her over.
The bruises on her arms were minimal. Momma mostly limited herself to minor visible injuries, preferring to reserve the true evidence of her anger to the spaces always covered by shirts and sweaters.
"Is that all of them?" She said nothing, knowing no answer was answer enough. He nodded at her and moved closer, eyes skimming over the purpled fingerprints on her skin. "Can I see the others?"
"They're… They're under the shirt." She bit her lip again, rubbing her hands against her arms.
"You don't have to remove the shirt. You can just point me to where they are." He stilled her hands. "I won't look any more than I have to for studying the bruising."
She nodded, closing her eyes and pointing to a particularly bad one on her side. His fingers slid beneath the thin fabric of her shirt and lifted it only to the edge of the bruising. Gentle hands positioned her under the bedroom light, tracing over the edges of red and purple and black.
He muttered under his breath about bruise size and color. "Sure to at least triple in diameter, spanning the right side of the rib cage." He pulled the shirt back down, waiting for her instruction. She pointed to a spot on her back, wincing when he dragged the fabric over the sore knot.
"Hm." His fingers traced this one as well, cool tips pressing painfully against the tender middle of the bruise. "So, she began her assault after you pulled away from her grip and attempted to stand up to her intimidation. You turned, resulting in first bruise one your side, and then the last one on your back. Your immobility allowed the second blow to land much more forcefully than the first, resulting in a darker, larger bruise. Both are significantly sized, implying that the first one is the result of impressive force applied."
Her head hung as she listened to his break down of her marks. She said nothing when he was finished, refusing to look at him. She held in tears, her throat tied in knots. She couldn't have spoken if she'd wanted to.
"This is why you showed up at the apartment earlier with grievances. John's turn was today, and since he didn't show up, you were forced to endure your mother's mood. What happened?" The question came out sharp and angry. She took in a shaky breath.
"Nothing really. She was supposed to go to an interview today while I was at school. When I came home she was still in pajamas, still asleep on the couch. Said that she didn't feel up to talking to anyone today. I got mad, and she got mad. We argued a bit, and she threw a couple of things. Really, she didn't mean to hit me."
"No? Those are awfully big for an accident." He let out an exaggerated sigh, finally prompting her to look up to him. He didn't appear embarrassed or angry. Instead his blue and gold eyes studied her with something unreadable, his lips tugged down as he ran his hand through his hair. "Why don't you leave her here? Why don't you tell her to fuck off?"
"Sherlock, you know I can't do that. She'd die here if I couldn't take care of her. She doesn't know how to do anything for herself." She set her mouth in a determined line, staring him down.
"Why is that your responsibility? Why does any of that excuse all this?" He motioned to her torso.
"I can't just leave her. She doesn't have anyone else." Molly fiddled with her bracelet again.
"It's not your job to make sure she lives." Sherlock's voice grew louder. "I thought you wanted away from all this?"
"Are you seriously suggesting I just let my mother die? That I just abandon her?" Molly scrambled to her feet, crossing the room to sit on her bed in the corner farthest from him.
"I'm seriously suggesting that you take care of yourself before she kills you." He paced around the room, steps quick. His face reddened. "You can't excuse her forever."
"Sherlock, these last few years have been tough. She can't keep a job, and this time of year is especially bad. You know—"
"Molly, don't you hear yourself? She was like this long before your dad died. You've gone through everything she has. When do you get a break?" He was practically yelling now, and Molly was glad that her mother had a date. The woman was likely already gone.
"Why do you care all of the sudden? You think you can just come in and tell me what to do?" She defended herself from her corner. She barely resisted the urge to bury her head in her knees.
"Be reasonable, Molly." He calmed suddenly, crossing the room to sit beside her.
"You think it's as easy as just being reasonable? You think it's as simple as leaving? You can tell me a thousand inane facts, but you can't see for a second from my eyes. She's my Momma, Sherlock. I can't just abandon her." Unbidden tears welled again, and she wiped furiously at them. "You think you're helping but you can be so awful sometimes."
He growled in frustration, flinging himself back onto her brightly colored comforter. "This is really not my area."
"No, really. It's not." She sniffled, stretching across him to retrieve her history book. "You can't just go off on me like that. It's my life and if I choose to stay, then that's my choice."
He stopped her with a touch to her shoulder. She turned to him, expecting some defense. Instead she felt lips pressed against her forehead, her eyes level with his chest. The smell of tobacco swelled beneath her nose, his lips warm and lingering against her skin. He pulled away slowly, locking his eyes to hers until she looked away, a blush staining her cheeks.
"Molly Hooper, you deserve to be happy. If you need anything, John and I are near. Be careful."
He slipped out the door quickly, leaving her with her textbook in her lap. Too many thoughts warred in her head for her to concentrate on the words in front of her. One thought repeated in her buzzing mind.
He was right, but it hardly mattered. Momma wouldn't let her leave. Even if she could, Molly didn't have anywhere to go. Not until she was out of college, armed with a degree and a career.
She was stuck here, as she always had been.