Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock, he owns me.
WARNING: OMG the feels. Things are about to get volatile. And messy.
And because I love you all, I decided to introduce my other bad guy in this chapter. Poor Sherlock!
Read, enjoy, review!
Chapter Thirty Nine
"Chemistry Lessons"
"What do you mean, he's going to be there?" Her fiancé asked. The annoyance in his voice was clear despite his face being buried in his pillow.
"It's his case, he does his work at my lab. Of course he's there." Molly told Tom as she got dressed in the dark. She had gotten a text from Sherlock just a few minutes prior, telling her he had some work for her, and that he would be there soon. 'There' being the pathology lab at St Bart's where she worked, and Tom seemed to be having trouble grasping that. It was five in the morning, so she could understand. She wasn't due to get up for another hour, and he slept until ten most mornings.
"But why does he have to be there?" Tom whined, lifting his face to glare at her. She sighed in exasperation, unsure of what was bothering him so much about Sherlock. She wasn't dating him, after all. She was engaged now. She thought she was, at least. Tom hadn't been acting much like a fiancé since she had been kidnapped the month before. He was reserved, remote, with occasional bursts of anger. Like now.
"What's wrong, Tom?" Molly asked, tying her shoe laces. She grabbed her coat from the hook on the back of the door, and waited for his answer.
"You go running whenever he summons you, and he isn't even your boss. Man doesn't even work for the hospital, yet he dictates your time!" Tom snapped, rolling over, tossing the blanket past his ears, ending the conversation.
"But…" She tried to talk, but he sat up, throwing the blankets off.
"Go on then! Get out, go see your detective!" Tom got out of bed, heading for the bathroom, and he slammed the door shut behind him.
Molly just stared at the door, unsure of what exactly she had done wrong. This is what she did. She went to work, and when she could, she helped Sherlock. Her regular work for the hospital and Scotland Yard never suffered for it, and she helped solve crimes with the world's best detective. The world's only consulting detective.
Molly bit her lip, hard. She didn't know where this animosity was coming from. She had told him while they were first dating all about Sherlock, and the work she did with him. And then once Sherlock came home, she had told Tom all about the scheme to convince the world that Sherlock was dead in order to defeat Moriarty. She hadn't told him how Sherlock faked his death, just the why. She figured if Sherlock wanted people to know, he would have responded to the million questions posed to him by reporters in the last two months. She hadn't held back anything really important. And then Sherlock had saved the world again, twice in one month. Never mind she got kidnapped by her ex-boyfriend's crazy sister. She was okay now.
He's acting like he's jealous. But I'm over Sherlock. And he's got John now, anyway. Sherlock is my friend.
She sighed, and left the bedroom, confused and hurt. Maybe she'd have a better day at the hospital. She brightened as she left her flat, a bounce in her step. Seeing Sherlock Holmes would make any woman's day.
Anthea gazed at the slumbering face of Violet Hunter, endearing and striking despite the bruises and cut lip. The sun was still a few hours from rising, but Anthea usually got up at this time anyway. Her internal clock was telling her it was around five a.m.
Anthea stretched, feeling relaxed and content for the first time in over a month. She grabbed her neoprene sleeve from the nightstand, slipping it back over her wrist and hand. It was flesh tone and had two stiff braces in it to support her hand and wrist; many people didn't even notice it. Her wrist and hand were recovering nicely, in no small part due to the wonderful skill of Dr. Watson. Her surgeons had told her that if John hadn't helped her when he did, she may have lost the use of her hand. She owed much to Dr. John Watson.
Anthea slipped from bed where she had been sleeping beside Violet, and quietly got dressed. She spied Violet's mobile on the nightstand, and send her a text in lieu of writing a note. She was glad it was on Vibrate, not wanting to wake the poor girl. Anthea smiled wryly at herself; this 'girl', while younger than she, knew exactly what she was doing in bed.
Have to go to work. I like you too. Call me? -Anthea
Anthea carried her heels, and slipped silently from the room, taking the stairs without making a noise. She peered around the open kitchen door, and smiled at the two men eating at the charred remains of the table. At least, Dr Watson was eating. Sherlock was letting John steal his bagel as he zoned himself out.
"Good morning." She murmured, impishly delighted when John choked on his strawberry jam-covered bagel. She didn't let her mask of serenity slip, laughing behind her tiny smile. His face got a faint red hue on the cheeks, and he was doing his best not to stare at her, and failing. Sherlock just grunted something that vaguely sounded like good morning. He probably didn't even realize he was talking to her. He had that look on his face that implied he wasn't available for human interaction.
"Oh, um good morning….excuse me…" John coughed, taking a sip of his tea and finally swallowing his bagel. "How's Violet?"
His face got even redder, and she thought about taking pity on him. Thought about it, but decided not to, this was too much fun. Her smile was serene as she came in the room, leaning on the sooty table as she put on her heels.
"Violet is exceptional…. And sleeping." Anthea winked at John, and his jaw slowly unhinged itself to hang open. He didn't even breathe, the poor man. "You two look like you're going out. I'm assuming you aren't planning on leaving Violet alone all day, are you? Not after what happened."
John and Sherlock both blinked at each other, before turning back to her, guilty expressions on their faces. Well, John's at least, Sherlock rarely felt guilty about anything.
"We thought that since you and she were…." John started to mumble, stopping as she narrowed her green eyes at him.
"We had sex, yes. That doesn't mean she wants me to be her babysitter, Dr Watson." She stated with one brow quirked. "Not to mention I happen to live and work with Mycroft, the man who has no desire to spend time with his brother's daughter?"
"Are they planning my future again?" Violet groused as she stumbled into the kitchen, mobile in hand. She ignored her uncle and John, and tugged Anthea around, planting a very non-niece-like kiss on her lips. She pulled back just a hair, and rubbed their noses together. "I'm happy you like me back, and I'll call you for certain."
Violet let her go, spinning around her and heading for the fridge, opening the door. Anthea just sighed quietly, not letting on how much she was enjoying the very surprised and delighted expressions on John's face. Violet was bouncy and happy, humming loudly and beautifully on-key, not caring one bit she was wearing next to nothing, robe all askew.
Violet didn't even flinch at the human arm sitting on a platter in the center of the fridge. She just reached past it for the milk, slamming the door shut. Violet made her coffee, ignoring John as he did his best not to stare. Anthea repressed a giggle, thinking that poor John was in for some more surprises the longer the Holmes scion lived with them.
Anthea's mobile vibrated, and she checked the screen. Her car was here. Mycroft was starting his day as well.
"I must be off, Mycroft has sent for me." Anthea accepted a tiny kiss from Violet as she bounced back over to her, balancing her freshly made coffee in one hand. "Bye, call me."
Violet winked at her, sipping her coffee. Anthea turned away, shrugging into her coat, laughing when she heard Violet wolf whistle at her as she walked down the stairs.
"John, you'll have better success drinking your tea if you pick up your jaw from the table top." Sherlock said, wide awake and zoned in. John was dabbing at his wet chin, having forgotten how to drink while being distracted by two beautiful women snogging in his kitchen. Sherlock ignored the glare his lover sent his way, unperturbed.
John was most assuredly bisexual. Sherlock was certain, but as of yet he hadn't seen John exhibit attraction for another male, other than himself. He'd keep watching just to confirm. If he didn't, then Sherlock would just put down John's sexual preferences as 'undefined'. Not that it mattered, really. John loved him, and wanted him. He was just curious. Everything about John Watson was important to Sherlock Holmes.
Sherlock turned his attention to Violet, who was humming, eyes half shut, sipping her coffee as she leaned on the table. The elbows of her robe were getting turned black by the tabletop, but she didn't notice. Or care.
"Violet." Sherlock said, making her snap from her happy post-coital daze.
"Hmmm?" She hummed at him, sipping away.
"We are about to depart for St Bart's, go get dressed. Twenty minutes." Sherlock told her. "Unless you wish to go dressed in just your robe. John wouldn't mind."
John swatted at his shoulder, and Sherlock grinned at his doctor past his cup. Violet laughed so hard she split her cut lip again, and she walked back up the stairs to her room, alternating between giggling and gasping as her lip stung.
Violet napped in the cab, snug between John and Sherlock, her bag in her lap. She had brought all her toys, expecting a long day of sitting around in a lab, watching Molly and Sherlock talk about things she had no clue about. John would be leaving for work at some time in the morning, while Sherlock and Molly processed evidence.
Violet dozed, snuggling with John's very well-muscled shoulder. She didn't know what he did for exercise, but whatever it was, it was working. John always let her snuggle without complaint, though sometimes he would get a funny look on his face. She thought it was cute, so she kept doing it. Sherlock didn't care one bit who she snuggled with. And Violet found herself needing the snuggling, the aches and pains fading away under the comfort. Her night had been horrible and wonderful, and she just wanted a moment of quiet, to hit the reset button.
She'd snuggle with Sherlock, but she didn't want to push it. She had no personal space issues, really. As long as things didn't go sexual, she had no issues snuggling with men whatsoever. She preferred it sometimes, men having higher body heat temperatures and all. Though most men she became friends with always took her snuggling the wrong way. Except for John. He was a snuggler, too.
Sherlock let her touch him, quick hugs and a hand through his curls. Him holding her the night before had been the most contact they'd had since the day he told her who she was.
He was more emotional, more accessible, since John Watson had entered his life. The cold, analytical, petulant child was evolving, becoming a more mature, emotionally mercurial man who was almost, occasionally, close to normal. Sometimes. He still had his moments of complete and utter asshole-ness, but she didn't mind, and neither did John. And he did seem more of a child than an adult in most social situations. And he was still resoundingly ignorant on some matters. So she might have to reevaluate her opinion on him being more mature.
His mind was sharper than ever, and he didn't stray too far into manic depressions and obsessive behaviors like he used to. Unless you counted his obsession with John Watson. But he had always been obsessed with John, so that wasn't unusual for him. There was an indefinable quality to this Sherlock Holmes that had been absent from the young man she first met over a decade ago. He was better, and worse, all at the same time. He was a perfect collection of imperfection. To paraphrase John, Sherlock was the most 'human' person she had ever met.
John sighed into her hair, and she snuggled closer, wrapping an arm under his, burying her nose in his coat. He smelled like breakfast tea and mints, and she caught a whiff of Sherlock's hair product.
"Is she sleeping again?" John asked Sherlock over her head.
"Lucky her, she did have a busy night. Why are we going to Bart's at this ungodly hour again?" Sherlock groaned.
"Because you were too excited to sleep and you wanted to find out what the toxin was that killed the crazy gardener." John told him, his voice loving and exasperated at the same time. She smiled, content to let them talk over her head.
"Oh." Sherlock turned back to his window. The sun was an hour away from rising, but London was already awake. Traffic wasn't too bad at this time of morning, but the snow was making things slightly problematic. Everyone forgot how to drive the second it began to snow, slowing down traffic to a near crawl.
Violet slipped further into sleep, and she didn't notice when John smiled down at her, pressing a self-conscious kiss to her silky hair.
John Woodley thrust deeper, faster, chasing his orgasm, riding the whore under him hard. He groaned, jerking as he came, pulsing deep. Woodley exhaled, and rolled off the woman beneath him, sated. She shivered as he pulled away, curling under the covers. He forgot her as soon as she did, staring up at the ceiling in his private suite of Claridge's Hotel. He had been using her all night since leaving Hyde Park, but she hadn't been enough. He had chosen her because of her looks, obviously; her dark hair and deep blue eyes close enough to his obsession it had taken off the edge. The whore was his last ditch effort in calming down. But while his body may be fulfilled, his anger threatened to override his control.
Detesting sweat and hating how the sheets clung to him, Woodley got out of king-sized bed, waving a hand idly in dismissal. The woman slipped from his bed, grabbing her dress and shoes as she went. Woodley would call her back if he had another urge, the staff knew to keep track of her. He stepped into his bathroom, indifferent as she limped from the room. He turned on all the shower heads in the large, marble and glass stall, water spraying out instantly hot from every corner.
Woodley let the spray do all the work, washing away his frustration. The whore may have taken off the edge, but he was fighting a losing battle with his anger. Contemplating his current problem was merely making him angrier.
Sherlock Holmes had stumbled across the fringes of his enterprise, and if the man kept looking, then he would most certainly see the whole of it. He was too close to fulfilling his goals to have some self-proclaimed consulting detective with a god complex stop him now.
So he had sent his minions to put a quick end to Holmes' interference, but what his people had reported back was enough to almost make being discovered well worth the risk. Sherlock Holmes had something John Woodley wanted, very badly. Something he had wanted for a long time now. It was lucky in many ways that the junkies sent to Baker Street had failed.
When he had leaned just who Sherlock Holmes had living under his roof, Woodley knew his goals were nearer to fruition than he had dreamed. The universe had always loved John Woodley, and finding the gorgeous and brilliant Violet Hunter had merely proved it yet again.
The law abiding citizens of the world may see Violet Hunter as the long lost niece of England's most famous private citizen, but those who lived on the darker side of the law knew who she really was. And even then, those who knew were an elite company. She was very selective in whom she took on as a client. Violet Hunter was the world's foremost hacker and programmer. Anything that you could think of, she could do. As long as you could afford her prices; she wasn't cheap. Getting ahold of her through the usual back channels took time, and money. He had been tracking her for a year now, and had nearly gotten the US government to hand her over three months prior. But she had slipped away before his procurer could catch her, and she had reemerged here in London, under the protective graces of her long-lost family.
He wasn't willing to part with more of his hard earned money for her to do a job for him, when he could just have the girl. His father had always told him: it was better to have the goose that laid the golden egg, rather than a single egg. And with Violet Hunter under his thumb, he'd have all the damn golden omelets he could want.
His men had blown the attempt to get her the night before. Peter had chosen the wrong people, sending in junkies high on his product. The drugs weren't refined yet at the stage they had been used, and every person's reactions were different. Either you went batshit crazy, or walked around in a stupor for over a day. Or you died, in a horrible, disgusting fashion. He had ordered her kidnapping, but the man sent in had an adverse reaction to the drugs, and descended into madness, nearly killing her instead. The others had left once it was clear she was still alive, and that the man sent in was dead.
Woodley wondered how she survived, as all of his research on he had said that while highly intelligent and adaptive, Violet Hunter had no skills whatsoever in self-defense. He thought it likely the drugs had incapacitated the junkie enough for her to kill him, which was more believable than the report filed by the Yard saying she had fought him off with a sword.
Peter was lucky he was needed after the previous day's colossal fuckup; not many junkies retained the balls to tell him unpleasant news. And Woodley loved the way he groveled. Not to mention Hannibal liked to torture him.
Woodley turned off the water, grabbing a towel as he walked out of the bathroom.
"Master." Peter hurried away from the bed, hands behind his back. He kept his head down, shoulders hunched.
Not again, the fucking deviant!
Woodley stopped, and narrowed his eyes at his servant. He was avoiding eye contact, which was proper, but he seemed very intent on not showing his hands for some reason. Sighing in disgust, Woodley grabbed a nearby vase full of roses, and hurled it at Peter's head. The weight of the roses and the water made it wobble in flight, saving Peter from getting a cracked skull as the heavy porcelain smashed into his chest instead. It didn't shatter, just sprayed water and thorn shrouded roses everywhere before thudding to the floor.
Peter fell back, landing on his ass, hands braced on the floor, revealing the strip of red cloth in one hand. Peter had the unfortunate habit of collecting women's underwear. Not to wear himself, but to keep. To play with, carry around in his nasty pockets. He especially liked the ones worn by the women his master fucked. Woodley strode over to Peter, and kicked him, hard. His foot caught the junkie in the kidney, making him cry out, gagging. Woodley pulled his foot back to kick again, but Peter curled in on himself, stammering apologies.
"Fucking pervert." Woodley snarled, walking away from the junkie huddling on the wet floor. "Pick that up, then tell me what you came in here for. And if you say it was to collect that fucking memento, then I'll feed you to my dog faster than my momma could spit."
His Rottweiler Hannibal perked up in the far corner, where he was gnawing on a large rawhide bone. Peter shrank back, and reached for the spilled flowers, one eye on the monstrous beast as he chewed on the tough leather. Hannibal was sixty kg of pure unadulterated muscle, and had the temperament of a nasty, spoiled, bloodthirsty child who delighted in tearing the heads off of dolls. And he was staring at Peter like he was the most delicious doll he'd ever seen.
Woodley went to his dressing room, his feet soundless on the thick, luxurious carpeting in the suite. The deep creams and succulent beiges of the carpeting was complimented by the deep red of the wood furniture, the soft blue walls. The dressing room was as large as the master bedroom, full of clothing he could spend a lifetime wearing. Most if it he would never wear; he had ordered his closets to be full of designer clothes, paying an exorbitant amount for some stranger to dress him. The result had been a never ending array of suits and formal wear, ridiculous jackets and scarves. What the fuck was a Westwood, anyway? But he knew better than to wear his rough denims and beat up jumpers. The most powerful drug lord in London had an image to project, and looking like a dock worker wasn't part of it.
He was a large man, all muscles and no fat to spare. He worked out daily, refusing to become soft at the easy living he was enjoying. His former boss had gotten lazy, and that laziness had let Woodley steal his empire out from under him. With just a small amount of help from a certain dead consulting criminal of course, but no one else knew that. And he had no intention of telling anyone, either.
He couldn't help his humble, brutal beginnings as a thug breaking bones for loan sharks, but he had changed his future. After taking over the drug scene in London from his former employer, Woodley had quickly stripped away as much of his rough exterior as possible. He kept the tattoos and scars covered, and dressed only in the best clothes. He'd dress like a spoiled trust fund prick if it kept the old rumors at bay. He was a well-respected businessman now, and he had to be above reproach. In public at least, and in the eyes of the law. What the world didn't know, wouldn't hurt him any.
Woodley grabbed the nearest suit, ignoring the sobbing junkie cleaning up the mess in the bedroom. He dressed, pleased when he heard Peter swear quietly as the thorns from the roses stabbed his hands. Hannibal growled; his deep rumble was loud even in the dressing room. Peter shut up, and Woodley grinned as his dog minded the junkie in the other room. Hannibal had no patience for the junkies his master surrounded himself with; snapping regularly whenever one was foolish enough to step too close.
Peter finished just as Woodley left the dressing room, dropping the roses in a wastebasket, hands bleeding from numerous tiny thorn marks. The slip of red fabric was out of sight, presumably in the freak's pocket. Woodley snapped his fingers, and Hannibal leapt up from his bed in the corner, lumbering over to put his head under his master's hand. Peter gulped, eyeing the dog as Woodley stroked the great head. Hannibal sniffed loudly, scenting the blood from the tiny cuts on Peter's hands.
"Why are you here?" Woodley asked, tugging on Hannibal's ears, the dog leaning on his leg.
"Master. The police are still collecting evidence at the nursery, and Holmes has left his flat with his niece and his partner, heading for St Bart's. He appears to still be on the case. We have been assured from our contacts in Scotland Yard that he has not yet begun work on the evidence. We believe he will be at the hospital for the majority of the day. Do you wish for us to try again?"
"What, kill Sherlock Holmes and kidnap his niece from a hospital with hundreds of potential witnesses? I think not. The hospital is still overrun with police, not to mention MI6. Put a tail on them. I want to know where they are at every moment of the day." Woodley scratched Hannibal's ears, his dog leaning harder on his leg the deeper he rubbed. "Besides, he won't find much from the evidence; it's been too long, it'll break down soon enough."
"Yes, Master." Peter dipped his head, and hesitated. "I was informed as well that Mr. Williamson is on his way to London. His private jet is expected to land sometime this evening."
Woodley stilled, and Hannibal shifted at his feet. The dog growled softly, sensing his master's sudden mood change. Peter shrank back, hands going up, torn between fearing his master, and the beast.
"Perhaps you should have told me that sooner?" Woodley growled, sounding exactly like his dog.
"I… well, yes. My apologies, master. I was informed that his business has nothing to do with your arrangement. He comes to London on a separate matter, with official orders from the CIA." Peter's voice was shaking, and he waited anxiously to see if his master would let the brute eat his face off.
Woodley's tension eased, and the dog relaxed enough to sit. Woodley ignored Peter, thinking hard. For Williamson to leave the United States was rare. Whatever prompted him to do so must be major. Official duties, how interesting. There was something here he wanted.
The Vicar is coming to London. I wonder what could be important enough to get him to leave Langley.
"Send him my greetings through our usual channels. Discretely and politely, Peter." Woodley ordered, Peter nodding exuberantly in relief.
"I'll be visiting the labs after lunch. Make sure the car is ready." Peter bowed awkwardly, backing from the room. "Where do you think you're going?"
"Um… nowhere. My apologies, sir. What else may I do for you?" Peter was dreading the words he knew were coming. Every time he came here, it was the same thing.
"Hannibal needs his walk." Woodley laughed as Peter paled, Hannibal getting to his feet. No matter the dog, every one of them the world over loved to go for walks. "His lead is on the door; do make sure he doesn't eat anyone's pet this time."
Peter shivered, but did as ordered. Woodley waved a hand at the dog, which ran excitedly for the door. They left, Hannibal dragging the slim excuse for man behind him out the suite. Woodley moved to the far side of the room. He pulled a painting from the wall, revealing the safe behind it. He spun in the combination, opening the heavy door. He reached in, and pulled out a beige manila folder. There was a picture stapled to the outside flap, and he stared at it, entranced.
She was remarkable, Violet Hunter. Raven dark hair, beautiful amethyst eyes, lightly tanned skin and the brilliance of a genius. She had inherited her family's penchant for intelligence, in its full measure. She would soon be his, along with the billions of dollars she would make him.
Sherlock walked down the long hall to the pathology lab, noting as he did the lights on within. Molly was there already. John and Violet were bringing up the rear, the good doctor charmed into carrying Violet's bag for her. All she did was slip just the tiniest bit on the sidewalk in the snow, and John had practically ripped the bag from her shoulder. Violet smiled at him, and took his arm, letting John play escort.
Dawn was on its way, the horizon lighting up slowly. It was meant to be warmer today than the day before, melting the first snowfall before midday.
Sherlock burst into the lab, startling his favorite pathologist as she was shrugging into her lab coat. Sherlock just grinned at Molly, and tossed his coat at the coatrack beside the door.
"Has the evidence been sent over?" Sherlock asked Molly, his way of saying hello and good morning all rolled into one. She nodded, and pointed to the table, where a single box sat next to his preferred microscope.
Sherlock eyed the younger woman as he rolled up his sleeves, pushing his jacket back to his elbows. John and Violet came in, having taken their time walking the hall. Violet just waved a casual greeting, heading for the small office of the lab. John grabbed a seat at the table, pulling out his mobile and doing something.
Molly was quiet. She usually was, just hovering at his elbow, watching him work. She was always willing to help, knowing what he needed, wanted before he had to voice it, and she never bored him. Yet this morning she was avoiding eye contact, twirling her engagement ring, and biting her lip. She had gotten dressed in the dark going by the state of her shoelaces. Which meant Sherlock had woken her from her bed that morning with his text. She didn't sleep alone, so he most likely woke the man she lived with as well.
Fiancé troubles. What was his name again? Terry, Todd, something boring…. Tom. I think.
Sherlock sat in her chair, using her microscope as he always did. It was the best one in the lab by far. Molly sat in the stool next to him, elbows on the table, picking at her nails. She did that when she was thinking about something unpleasant. He let her be, focusing on the box next to him. He gave it five minutes before she started in on what was bothering her. She reached out, pulling a notepad and pencil over for him, sliding it to his nearest hand without saying a word. She was moving on autopilot, their habits of working together for so long deeply ingrained.
Sherlock pulled out the small baggies of evidence, tossing aside the irrelevant ones until he found Donovan's glove, the one that had the film on it from grabbing the door handle. He took the latex gloves Molly handed his way, snapping them on without a word. She gave him a pair of shears, and he cut open the evidence bag, pulling out the leather glove. He examined every centimeter of it, saving the shiny film for last.
Molly sighed quietly beside him, so low he almost didn't catch it. He didn't put down the glove, but he snuck a quick look at her from the corner of his eye. She would usually be sitting next to him, watching his every move. She was assisting as usual, no fault there, but her attention was so obviously elsewhere. Her thoughts were so chaotic he could almost hear them bashing against his own eardrums.
"You are exceptionally distracted, Molly." Sherlock stated, dropping the glove. He did his best not to show his irritation. In fact, he was doing his best not to be irritated. It was hard, but he was trying. He couldn't very well call her a friend, and then be unfriendly. At least he thought that's how it worked.
"Sorry." Molly sighed again, louder. She bit her lip so hard Sherlock was surprised it wasn't bleeding.
He rolled his eyes, and figured he might as well solve the emotional mystery before the case.
"What's wrong?" Sherlock peeled off his gloves, tossing them to the table.
He hid his instinctive flinch as she looked at him in surprise. She was still expecting him to be his former cold and remote self with her, and old habits die hard. He smiled at her, trying to have it be supportive or whatever it was he was supposed to be for this sort of thing. She appeared wary, and he mentally cursed himself for not trying hard enough. He scared her off, she might mope all day and he couldn't have that. Not to mention a small part of him was fighting the urge to go find a certain doppelgänger fiancé and beat the ever-living snot out of him. For that man was obviously why she was upset, and no one messed with Molly Hooper but Sherlock Holmes.
"Oh. Um….." She was about to say 'nothing', and he glared at her. She sighed, and dropped her head in her hands. "Tom."
"Well, yes, obviously. Elaborate." Sherlock ordered, turning to her completely, giving up on work for the moment. Sherlock ignored John, who was watching very intently, most likely thinking he'd have to intervene and save Molly if Sherlock got too out of hand. But Sherlock had been practicing making small talk, (in his head), and felt he could do this.
"He was upset with me this morning." She mumbled, not looking at him. Her hair obscured her face, and he told himself reaching out to move it so he could see her expression might not be a good idea. "Because you asked me to come in early to help you with a case."
"Why would that bother him? I've been doing that for years." Sherlock took her willingness to aid him on cases as a given. He knew she enjoyed it, even he could see that. And he knew she was in love him, too. But they had managed to ignore that for the last few years, and he had been relieved when she found someone more normal to love. Someone who wasn't a sociopath. She deserved better than him. He couldn't be what she wanted.
"He was just very upset that it was you. He's been upset since you came back, since we went solving cases together that one day, and since I was kidnapped by my ex-boyfriend's little sister because she was mad at you." Molly said all of that in a mad rush, her words tumbling but easy enough to understand. "I think he's jealous of you. I don't know why. It's not like you and I ever….."
She trailed off, her cheeks getting red, eyes sadder. He was horrified for a split second that she would start to cry. She just shrugged at him, and went back to picking at her nails.
"No, we've never….." Sherlock murmured, realizing he had no clue what to say or do. He had an unexpected thought. "Did you tell him that I kissed you?"
John Watson spilled out of his chair so fast he dropped his mobile. He bent over to pick it up, hitting his head on the edge of the table as he came back up. He slapped a hand to his head, rubbing it while trying not to make it obvious he had heard. Molly and Sherlock both stared at him, wondering what in the world was wrong with the man. John blinked, and opened and shut his mouth a few times before mumbling something unintelligible. He sat back down in his chair, pretending (badly) not to be listening, playing on his mobile. Sherlock just shook his head, and looked back at Molly.
"No, I didn't tell him. It was just twice on the cheek, anyway. No big deal." Molly blushed, and smiled the first truly happy smile at him he'd seen since he came in. He smiled back at her, relieved to see a faint glimmer in her eyes. Molly was too sad, too often. If she needed a kiss on the cheek to make her smile, he'd give her one every day.
"Oh. Hhhmmmm." Sherlock thought hard, wondering what else would prompt her fiancé to suddenly take him in aversion. He'd only met the man once. "Did he see your goodbye video?"
"Oh, no." Molly stammered, blush fading at the mention of her forced farewell video, thinking she was dying, and confessing her everlasting love to him as she did. "I haven't even seen that!"
"Well, yes, never mind. Classified and all." Sherlock was stumped. But he refused to give up. He hated giving up.
Sherlock ignored the loud sigh from John's end of the table. Sherlock knew he was missing something obvious, but as this whole thing was an emotional issue, Sherlock was swimming in uncharted waters. He understood John, and how he felt about him. He knew John loved him; it was so clear and powerful. Thinking about John loving him reminded him that Molly loved him, in much the same way.
This epiphany was painful, compared to his usual ones, the ones that gave him a high better than any cocaine he'd ever used. This time it made his eyes sting, his fingers go cold.
Oh Molly. He's jealous because he knows you're still in love with me. You love me more than him. And you let me back in your life as if I never left. To you, and you alone, I was not dead, so you never mourned, never let me go. You can't let me go.
Sherlock tossed a look at John, asking him silently to give him a moment. John met his gaze, the doctor solemn and understanding. He got up, and went to the small office where Violet was working, closing the door behind him. Sherlock turned back to Molly, who wasn't looking at him, avoiding his eyes like a child expecting a lecture.
"Is it because you are in love with me?" Sherlock asked her gently. Her eyes flew to his, glimmering with tears, her lip bruised from biting it.
"I think so…..." She whispered, and the tears spilled over. Her face scrunched up, and she pressed the heels of her hands to her eyes. She tried to get up, but Sherlock grabbed her carefully, pulling her to his chest. Hugging her may not be the best idea, but she was so sad. She burrowed her head under his chin, and he held her thin frame as she sobbed out her pain.
Sherlock didn't speak. What could he say to her? He wasn't for her, his heart and soul belonged to one man, his doctor. He loved her, but not the way she wished. She knew all of this, having confronted it as she thought she was dying.
Sherlock had a thought, an option before him that was unpleasant and went against everything he wanted from his life. But for her, he would do it. For Molly Hooper, he would walk away. Excise his presence from her world, so she could move on. Find love with someone who could give her what she needed.
"Molly….." Sherlock whispered in her ear. "Do you want me to go? Leave?"
"What?" She gasped out, her tears wetting his neck. He didn't mind. She'd cried on him before.
"You love me. I can't love you back, not like that. Do you want me to leave? I'll do my work in one of the other labs; get Scotland Yard to give me access to another pathologist. I'll go, completely. So you can move on." Sherlock coughed as she tightened her grip on him, wrapping her arms around his neck.
"NO." She sounded so sure he snapped his mouth shut, wondering if he'd just made things worse. She pressed against him, and he sighed, lost.
"Sorry." Sherlock mumbled, and decided to just hug her. He was getting good at hugging women as they cried on him. Maybe she just needed to cry. He hoped that would work.
"Poor Molly." Violet said softly as John sat beside her on the leather couch in Molly's office. She didn't look up from her laptop, just listened to the faint sounds of tears coming through the door. "Poor Sherlock, too."
"Yeah, it's a right mess. Don't know what he's going to do about it, either." John told her, dropping his head back on the cushions.
"Aren't you on your way to work here in a bit?" Violet asked, eyes following a stray line of code through a program she was trying to repair. She must have wrote this while high or something the first time. She hadn't partaken of anything in a few months, so she wasn't sure. John didn't reply, and she stopped, watching as he got slightly pink in the face. She'd never met a man who blushed as easily as John Watson. "What?"
"I called off the next two days." John muttered, eyes shut, head still back. That would mean he wasn't going to work for four more days, as that would bring them to the weekend. Vacation?
"Umm, why?" Violet asked, befuddled.
"Because someone tried to kill you last night." John said, exasperated.
Violet found herself getting all teary, and she bumped his shoulder with her own.
"You softie." She whispered, going back to her code, leaning on him until he roped her in, letting her snuggle all she wanted.
The Lear jet soared across the still dark sky, stars burning brilliantly above as it headed eastward to the distant shores of England. It was so quiet in the cabin that he could hear his own heartbeat. Silence, exactly as he liked it. His men were in the rear, as far from their boss as they could get. He took that as a good sign; it meant his reputation in the field hadn't diminished at all in the years since he'd last run a mission.
The mission he was on was sanctioned, in so far as any of them could ever be. Especially on the sovereign soil of an allied nation. He knew how to mind his manners, as long as he received the cooperation he need to complete his mission. He opened his laptop, and accessed the files of the formerly assumed dead intelligence officer known only as A.G.R.A. She had been labeled dead almost six years earlier. After dying in an explosion that also took out her assigned targets. Which he knew were really dead, as enough DNA evidence had been recovered for them to be identified afterwards. There had been none for her, which should have tipped off the cleaners after the explosion that something wasn't right.
He sighed in frustration, ruing the day he had accepted the promotion to director of special operations. Once he left the field, officers had started to get lazy. He had taught most of them better.
Most of the men he had with him now weren't his, many of them too young to have been trained by him while he taught at the Farm. But the stubborn and violent Golden Girl had been his trainee. She had flourished under his tutelage, becoming an unstoppable force of nature. He had enjoyed stripping from her any trace of the young woman she had been, reducing her to nothing but an efficient and obedient machine. She quickly outstripped her peers, graduating early, and within a year she was breaking records for her age group. Her mission success rate had been flawless. She had nearly four hundred confirmed kill actions to her credit. No one had even come close to breaking her record in the years since she 'died'.
Silas Williamson, Director of Special Operations for the CIA, aka 'The Vicar', was hunting his former protégé. She had been confirmed alive almost two months ago, living in London, under the name of Mary Morstan. And he would find her, without a doubt. She wasn't the only one with a flawless record.
Greg groaned in frustration, glaring at the wheelchair the nurse was holding for him. He could walk, just very carefully, and as long as he didn't move his left arm any.
"C'mon Boss, you know you need it." Sally needled him, and he rolled his eyes at his sergeant when she grinned. "Hurry up, I hate hospitals."
Sally ignored the glare from the nurse holding the chair, carrying the small duffel bag containing his few clothes and personal items.
Greg stopped hesitating, knowing the sooner he got in the damned chair, the sooner he'd be outside. Out of this room he'd been in for over a month. He levered himself slowly out away from the bed, and moved carefully to the chair. It was only a couple of feet, but it felt like a mile before he lowered himself into the seat. He refused to show how hard it had been, ignoring the sweat rolling down his temple at the effort. If they saw how hard it was, they may not let him leave.
He knew technically he was only being released from the hospital into private care. Mycroft had pulled off the impossible, arranging for private nurses and a special bed and equipment at his townhouse, all within a few hours. But to him, he felt like a kid escaping school for a summer holiday.
Greg endured the indignity of being wheeled out like an old man, Sally following behind. They exited at the front entrance of the hospital, and Sally went into berserker mode when she saw a couple of reporters waiting on him. He ignored them, letting Sally keep them at bay as the nurse wheeled him to Mycroft's black Jaguar. The great black car was purring in the melting snow of the street, and the valet opened the door for him. Sally hovered, but he waved off her help as he slowly gripped the door, stood with infinite care, and lowered himself into the very luxurious interior of the car. It was warm, and soft, and he hardly had the strength to move once he sat down.
Sally hopped in after him, slamming the door on the reporters taking pictures. He could care less. His entire torso was throbbing in time with his heart, and he was sweating. She didn't say a word, just kept him company as the car pulled out and away from St Bart's.
"Tell me what's going on at the Yard, please." He tried his best not to sound like he was begging. He needed a distraction from the pain.
"Got a double murder yesterday, Sherlock's on it." Sally told him, watching the streets blur as the car accelerated through downtown traffic.
"Oh, well, take the week off, he's got it sorted." Greg chuckled, gasping as he remembered he shouldn't laugh. "How's my office doing?"
"It's still your office, and I'm reminded of that every time I accidentally sit at my old desk." She grumbled, and he smiled at the discomfort in her voice. "I cannot wait for you to get better and take it back."
"Me neither! Not because you're doing a bad job, you aren't, really. I just hate being, well…. This." Greg waved a hand at his entire body, encompassing his aches and pains and damned frailty.
"I know." Sally smiled brightly, and he had to do a double take at the glitter of moisture in her eyes. "I need you back, Boss."
"Hey now, none of that. Don't know why you're crying, I was the poor bloke thinking his partner was dead for days on end." Greg said, and she sniffled.
"I am so sorry about that." Sally said again, for the millionth time. He waved at her, stilling her endless apologies. She hadn't stopped apologizing since the day he woke up to find out she lived.
"You didn't know what that bitch was doing. It's not your fault." Greg said, catching her hand, holding it tightly. He held her hand until the car pulled up in front of Mycroft's house, the grand white entrance daunting in the morning light.
"Wow, your boyfriend's got a nice house. Must be good money, running the country." Greg sputtered at her calling Mycroft his boyfriend. The word 'boyfriend' just didn't match up with his mental image of Mycroft Holmes. The word was too insignificant.
"We aren't, he hasn't…" Greg gave up, not knowing what they were.
"Of course he's your boyfriend, you just moved in with him." Sally said, exasperated.
"But we haven't even…" Greg shut up as the door was opened, and he dropped his head when he was greeted by another wheelchair.
Getting him into the house wasn't an issue, nor was getting settled in a large, spacious sitting room on the first floor of the house, near the rear garden, that was converted into a bedroom. The problem was he felt horribly awkward, and immediately lost. He'd spent a good week of his life here when they were dealing with Jaime Moriarty. But then he'd had purpose, a reason to be here, a focus outside himself. He'd spent two days wrapped up in Mycroft's arms, as they comforted each other as best they could when they thought Sally and Anthea were dead. But those two days felt like they hadn't happened, in so many ways. The day he remembered best was the morning after Moriarty stormed the townhouse, kidnapping John. That morning he'd done something he'd never thought possible, not for him. He'd kissed Mycroft Holmes, and the MI6 man had let him.
"I'm off, Boss. It is okay I come by to visit, right? This place looks like a museum." Sally was almost whispering, eyeing the very expensive furniture.
"Yeah, don't see why not. I'm not going anywhere." He smiled at her as she dropped his bag on the bed, waving as she walked out.
Greg relaxed as best he could on the very soft couch the now absent attendant had left him, and he realized he had nothing to do. He was bored, again. But he wouldn't complain, he was out of the damn hospital, and he was thankful.
Now all he needed was to know where his host was. Greg hadn't seen him yet, not once. He tried not to feel upset, considering that Mycroft Holmes literally ran the British Government. Man was probably busy.
He slowly lowered himself down on the couch, glad to be resting flat on something that wasn't a bloody hospital bed. He groaned, happy to be able to put his feet up, even if it was on the very expensive looking fabric of the armrest. It wasn't his armchair back at his flat, but it would do in a pinch.
He must have fallen asleep, because the next thing he knew, he felt fingers running through the hair at his temple. He hovered in that peaceful place between waking and dreaming, happy and content. He lifted an arm, letting it fall back over his head, stretching out the tight, sore muscles of his side, and it fell across the muscular lap of the man sitting next to his head. He sighed, feeling warm and relaxed, and rubbed his head against the leg beside him.
Those warm, gentle fingers traced the edge of his ear, sending tiny shivers down his neck, across his skin, before drifting back through his hair. He had the fuzzy thought that he was really glad he hadn't cut it, that it was longer than usual. It felt so very good.
A hand found his, of the arm draped across the lap of the man showing him such wonderful attention. Fingers intertwined, and a thumb rubbed circles on his palm. He stirred, the tingles waking him further from that happy place of lazy warmth. He moved his head a little bit, and blinked up at the man sitting on the couch with him.
Mycroft gave him a tiny smile, not saying anything, fingers still playing in his hair. Their eyes met, and held, no tension between them, just relaxed and content. Greg smiled back, and let his eyes drift shut.
"Enjoying your stay, Gregory?" Mycroft asked him, voice low, caressing.
"Hmm." It was the only reply he had the strength for, so tired and content was he. Greg rubbed his head on Mycroft's leg, trying to get closer. Mycroft's hand tightened on his, the thumb rubbing his palm firmer, slower, a small heat building in him.
"So I see." Mycroft sounded happy, amused. It was so strange, hearing those emotions in Mycroft's voice. Greg couldn't really recall hearing Mycroft be happy more than once before; when Mycroft had called him back from that in-between place of nothingness. When he had tried to tell Mycroft that he would do anything for him, even come back from the dead.
"Feels good." Greg whispered, trying really hard to open his eyes, to see Mycroft. Greg managed it, and he knew that tiny flutter in his chest, that stirred his heart when he saw that face, was love. He loved this man, this man he barely knew, and his friend's brother, who ran the entire nation from a massive underground bunker beneath their feet. Greg loved him.
He was so happy, and tired, and caught up in the sweet and lazy warmth, that he just let the words out. He had no thought of repercussions or fear of rejection. Just love.
"Love you." He sighed. His eyes drifted shut, and he tried not to fall asleep, but he couldn't resist. He fell away, his thoughts loosening from his waking mind, and the last thing he heard helped the nascent sensations in his heart grow.
"I love you too, Gregory." Mycroft whispered to the sleeping man. He was overcome, glad no one could see him. He had never, in all his long empty years, said those words to another human being.
Mycroft leaned back on the couch, his fingers still running through Gregory's silky fox grey hair. There was a darker stripe along the crown of his head, whiter down the sides and at his temples. He wasn't losing any hair, it had just gone this lovely blend of smoky grey and snow white. It was thick and full and Mycroft couldn't stop touching it. He smiled at himself, glad the door was shut, and that he was alone. He had just been planning to stop in briefly, say his hellos and go back to work. But Gregory had been sleeping, and he looked so much more relaxed and content on the couch than he had ever been at the hospital. He had looked so appealing that Mycroft had closed the door and snuck over to the couch.
Mycroft was experiencing a sensation he thought he would never feel in his life. That such a thing was not meant for him, that he must spurn it, cast it aside if it ever grew in him. But now that he felt it, he wanted it so much. Greg loved him, his current state making it hard for him to lie, or to embellish the truth. Mycroft had been in enough interrogations to know when someone was telling the truth. Greg loved him, and Mycroft was beyond ecstatic. He didn't know how to show it, but every fiber of his body, heart, mind, and that indefinable quality he must label his soul loved Gregory Lestrade. So those simple and inadequate words would have to do, for now.
Mycroft tried to ignore the mobile in his pocket, as it vibrated incessantly at him for the millionth time in the last five minutes. He gave it two minutes before Anthea came for him herself. He understood her impatience, as he hated it when people ignored him too. But this time he couldn't care, not really. He had found a moment of pure, strings free happiness, and he wanted to hold onto it for as long as he could.
Considering who was flying into the country today, Mycroft Holmes knew that happiness would be in short supply, for himself, his brother, and John Watson.
The Vicar was coming for Mary Morstan, and Mycroft Holmes had been ordered to help him find her. The directive had come from one of the two people in the entire country capable of ordering him to do anything.
Mary groaned in frustration, dropping the mobile to the settee. There was nothing left to read, watch, and listen to on the mobile. She felt like she'd scoured the entirety of the internet in the last month. She was trapped, and had nothing to do. She was going insane sitting in this fake house.
She lashed out, slamming her fist into the wall, ignoring the intense flash of pain that radiated out from her knuckles, up her wrist. The skin tore on her knuckles, but she was past caring. Anything felt good right now.
I can't fucking take it anymore. I'm losing it. I'm going insane.
Mary picked up her mobile, disregarding the blood dripping from her hand. She typed in a text, and hit Send. She didn't even care which Holmes she sent it to either.
If I don't get some fresh air soon I'm turning myself in just so I'll have something to fucking do. I'll take killing guards over these concrete walls –MM
Mary knew she was being childish, but she had no reserves left. Her hormones were starting to drive even herself crazy, and not being able to leave this building was actually producing a sick feeling in her stomach.
Mary flung herself down on the settee, and grabbed her pillow, hugging it. She clutched her mobile, and found herself wishing for company. Anyone's right now.
She found herself thinking about John. The way he smiled, walked, the scent of his cologne. The ugly jumpers he wore on his days off, and the black suede jacket he wore to work. The way he made his tea in the mornings, and how he'd always read the same section of newspaper first every day.
Mary flinched at the pain she felt at these memories, and sternly cast them aside. He was gone. She had nothing left of him but the life she carried.
She pressed her face in her pillow, and rested. Stress wasn't good for the baby. She'd force herself to cope somehow.
Mary relaxed, and found her thoughts drifting further. Anything to get John out of her head, she thought of Jaime.
A woman born with exceptional gifts, abilities to rival even a veteran assassin with a decade more experience. She had been brilliant, tactical, brutally efficient, and mercurial. She had done the impossible, which no matter how much training a person may get, could never really do: She had exorcised all fear. Jaime Moriarty had been the definition of fearless. And she was thoroughly, utterly insane. Jaime Moriarty had been broken as a child, she and her big brother Jim. Both broken, and abandoned by the world. And to protect themselves, they became monsters, conquering the threats against them, and wielding evil as both shield and weapon.
She had also, in some strange and wonderful way, become Mary's friend. A partner. Once Jaime had extended the chance to avenge their mutually broken hearts, and Mary accepted, Jaime had treated Mary as an equal. Full access to weapons, plans, decisions. And while Mary had been focused on avenging her scorned affections, Jaime Moriarty had given her heart to Mary. She didn't know how, or why, but Jaime had loved her in the end. Loved the assassin who had been born Amelia. There had been no one left in all the world who knew her birth name, but Jaime had.
And Jaime died in a cage in a hellstorm of fire. Mary shuddered at the possibility that Jaime may not have found the knife she'd accidentally left in her jacket when she covered the unconscious woman with it in the cage. And the chance that she had. That the last remaining scion of the Moriarty clan was alive. Mary's thoughts were chaotic, caught up in the nightmare of possibilities.
Jaime had been a dreadful, horrific reminder of the frailty of life and the human heart. That anyone could become evil. Mary had been so close to becoming her, six years ago. If she hadn't decided to retire and fake her death, she would most likely be worse than Jaime Moriarty had ever been. If her own agency hadn't decided to retire her first. With a bullet.
Mary sat up, and threw the pillow away. Thinking about the young woman who had found the remnants of Mary's broken heart was merely adding to her misery. Mary decided then and there that she wanted to get out of these concrete walls if it was the last thing she did. And she wished with all her heart that she would see the beautiful and mad face of Jaime Moriarty when she stepped out the doors of Leinster Gardens.
Sherlock rested his chin on Molly's head, the shorter woman crying on his chest. Her tears were easing, and she had relaxed her grip on his neck. He hadn't said anything after she shot down his suggestion that he leave her, leave her life. Her refusal to even hear it made Sherlock feel weird, happy and sad all at once. These emotions were confusing, and he had trouble prioritizing them.
"Sherlock?" That wasn't Molly, but Violet. He looked up, to see Violet in the doorway of the small lab office, John at her shoulder.
He didn't say anything, just lifted an eyebrow in query. She stepped out, her bag over her shoulder, coat on. She was leaving, and John was going with her, if his doctor's expression said anything about it.
"Going to go see a mutual friend, cabin fever and all." She told him. "John's coming with me."
Sherlock sighed, not wanting his doctor or niece out of his sight, but realizing that he hadn't much choice right now. He nodded, and locked eyes with John. His doctor gave him that small, intense, sweet smile he never showed anyone else, before his eyes dropped to the woman crying on Sherlock. John shrugged, his eyes communicating an emotion Sherlock couldn't quite figure out. Regret? What could John be regretting?
John waved his mobile at him before following Violet out the door. John would text him, of course.
Molly lifted her head as she heard the doors swing shut, wiping at her cheeks. He lifted his hands, wondering what to do. She was usually so easy to be around, but he was lost in this instance. Had he hugged her too long? Not long enough?
She wiped away the tears still on her face, and did her best to smile at him.
"Better now?" He dared to ask, thinking in his deepest of hearts that things would never be better. He couldn't be what she wanted.
Molly didn't answer, a hand coming to rest on his chest. She seemed to be thinking hard, her face hiding her thoughts from him. Sherlock waited, wondering what she was thinking. Molly let her eyes flow over his face, as if seeing him for the first time, or the last. As if she wanted to remember every line, every smooth plane. He was so distracted by the fact he couldn't read her that he didn't see what she intended before it was too late.
Molly kissed him. She kissed him deep, and fully, hands holding his face, body pressed to his, warm and soft and curvy in new places. Her lips were soft, and sweet, and tasted of tears. Sherlock gasped, frozen, and she took her chance, kissing him deeper. Her tiny tongue touched his before darting away, to briefly explore his mouth as her lips moved over his. She gave him a kiss full of passion and love and desire, achingly sweet and pure.
Kissing her so was so different from kissing John that Sherlock nearly shut down, utterly befuddled. He would realize in hindsight that perhaps he should have disentangled himself immediately, but he hoped he could be forgiven, never having kissed a woman like this before. A cheek kiss for his mother or Mrs. Hudson sure, but never had he ever kissed a woman like this. Jaime Moriarty had kissed him while he was in the hospital, but not even remotely like this. Molly's kiss literally had no comparison in his experience. Her fingers wove through his hair, and she held her whole body to him. He just sat there on his stool, and let her kiss him. And kiss him she did.
Molly pulled away, having thoroughly and rather expertly kissed him as wonderfully as any woman could have wished. Sherlock blinked at her, confused, and feeling slightly guilty that it hadn't been unpleasant. So very different from what he was used to that he catalogued the experience, filing it away automatically, and wondering why he was staring at her like she had told him she'd met someone smarter than him.
"I won't say I'm sorry, Sherlock. I'm not." She whispered, stepping back from him. She looked down at her hands, fingers twirling her ring. "I need to go talk to Tom. He can be jealous about something tangible now, I guess. I'll understand if you're not here when I get back. And you tell John I did that, too. Or I can, if you prefer. I just had to do that at least once in my lifetime before I die."
Molly's fingers brushed his curls from his eyes, as he tried to learn how to think past his confusion. She pulled off her lab coat, and picked up her things, pausing briefly at the lab door before walking out. He would remember the look on her face for the rest of his life.
The doors swung shut behind her as she left, leaving him alone in the pathology lab. Sherlock stared at the doors, wondering what had just happened, and why he felt so very sad about it all.