So, here's chapter 72 - a bit longer than intended, but I'm sure you don't mind. Before you start reading - I am so sorry for this (no not really).
Not long after Sherlock and I are sitting in a cab. We didn't really explain the incident when I shot Sherlock, only the most basics without mentioning Irene at all. It is something scary to talk about, something which pushed me closer to the criminal I used to be – and we never had to talk about it before, Sherlock, Mycroft and I knew what had happened. There's also the point of keeping it all real. I doubt Dr Watson really knows what we went through, and I don't want to be the one to tell him it is a miracle I myself sometimes can't believe that we all survived.
I didn't want to stay in 221B this time, and Sherlock wants to go to Bart's again, says he has some experiments to do.
I already know I'll pay the fare, Sherlock simply can't be bothered, and money isn't a problem for me. It feels unreal, but Mycroft is in the process of taking the money from Father's many bank accounts, and even though I protested, he gave me some of it. He called it my inheritance, so now I have a few millions on a bank account of a fake persona of mine. I didn't want it to be on the account Father made me before he died. There is still a lot of money on it, about twenty-four thousand, and I feel like that's enough. I'm not sure I'll touch the money anywhere in the near future, but Mycroft insisted.
I look out of the window and watch the rain fall. We're not far from the house Father and I used to live in, and once again I wonder whether Andy and David still live there. Somehow I don't have the urge to go there and check. I don't know why, maybe because I don't want Sherlock to meet them, him being a detective and them being guilty of a few crimes. Maybe also because I feel like that part of my life is over – even if I did visit them, I wouldn't know what to do.
I feel Sherlock's gaze on me and turn around to face him.
"You okay?" I ask, trying to figure out what his expression means.
"Do you know who Molly Hooper is?" He shoots back, without answering my question.
"Molly – Wait, wasn't Dr Watson so angry because of her? Because she helped you fake your suicide?"
"Yes. Did your father ever tell you anything about her?" It's still strange to hear him talking about Father like that, I know he hated Father, but for my sake he is trying to be civil.
I rack my brain for anything he could have said, but no, there's nothing. I shake my head and Sherlock frowns.
"About three years ago? Maybe you've seen her, brown hair, bit mousy?"
I think again, but there's nothing I can remember.
"No, why?"
"The first time I met your father, he disguised himself as someone working at Bart's, he called himself 'Jim from IT'. He faked a relationship with Molly Hooper to get to me through her."
I can feel my eyebrows rising up, but it does sound like something Father would do.
"And let me guess, he broke her heart?" I ask, hoping not to go against someone with a huge grudge.
"Not quite. Molly used to harbour a crush on me and tried to get over me with him. When she introduced me to him, I deduced he was gay – a simple, but good disguise. She broke it off after, her words, three dates."
"Okay... Should I tell her who I am?"
"If you want. She's trustworthy, she'll keep it secret."
Sherlock's description of mousy doesn't quite fit Molly Hooper any more, even though I can see what Sherlock told me. She seems nice, greets Sherlock and me with a smile, which is slightly more towards Sherlock, and lets him go towards the work bank straight away.
Molly Hooper and I stay standing near the door, and I look at my shoes, feeling a bit out of place. It's strange to feel so self-conscious, but the circumstances are something I have never encountered before. There had never been anyone else but Father and me, he had never really taken interest in women, or men in that matter, and now I'm standing in front of the woman who had been his girlfriend. I can't help but wonder how much of that had been real.
Then I shake my head. It doesn't matter whether who he had been with, or what he really thought about Molly Hooper. It's long over now.
"So – I'm Molly, Molly Hooper." Molly says, and I look up at her friendly smile.
"I'm Kiara," I answer, and swallow once, trying to shut the feeling of nervousness away. "Sherlock says you knew my Father."
She looks interested now, and tilts her head slightly.
"Oh? What's his name?"
It hurts to hear her talking about Father in present tense, but it's not her fault, so I lick my lips, tongue suddenly dry.
"James Moriarty."
Her eyes widen in sudden fear and she takes a step back, eyes flicking towards Sherlock and back to me.
Obviously, Sherlock heard everything, as he raises his voice now.
"Relax, Molly, it's fine. She isn't like him, she's safe."
Molly is still breathing quicker than usual, but she nods.
"Okay. Okay. I hope you're right."
"I usually am." Sherlock replies, but she ignores him, swallowing once, twice, and looks back at me. Putting out her hand, she grips mine as I shake it.
"He never told me about you." I let go off her hand and purse my lips.
"Same here." I say, and then look away.
"Well, I need to get back to work, Sherlock, call me if you need anything."
As she hurries towards another work-bank, I slowly walk towards Sherlock and sit down on a chair next to him, more shaken about her reaction than I'd like to admit.
I never thought about how Father looked like to other people, what other people thought of him. But despite growing up with a man who didn't really have emotions, I still have a sense of morals, if a twisted one.
I never realised how much people feared him, even now after his death, and how I must look to them because of that.
Sherlock sits in front of his microscope like he's glued to it for more than two hours. Now and then he asks me for equipment or strange liquids, which I mostly have never heard of before, so after some time Molly has enough pity for me to give me a quick tour.
I can see she is uncomfortable with me around, constantly tense, but I am grateful she is at least willing to try and work around it.
It does help a lot though, and even though I don't know the names of everything, I'm getting better.
After one and a half hours I decide to go to the cafeteria and get something to drink and eat. I already know what Sherlock wants, coffee, black, two sugar, so when he speaks up so quietly Molly can't hear I know what he means instantly.
"Café Latte, three sugar, and a blueberry muffin." With a nod I get up and leave the labs.
It's not hard to find the cafeteria, it isn't far away, but getting the two coffees, a coke for me, the muffin and two chocolate bars to the labs proves to be slightly more difficult. After nearly dropping it all for the second time, I hear a voice behind me.
"Hey, you need a hand with that?" Behind me is a young man, maybe twenty-two, who seems to be here on an work experience. He looks relaxed, without a care in the world, and for a moment I both pity him and am jealous. He has never seen the world, never nearly died, never stared down the barrel of a gun.
Then I realise he is looking me up and down, obviously hitting on me, and I hide my smirk. It is flattering, especially from somebody who, as I now realise, is rather good-looking: Tall and lean, hair spiked up slightly, and a boyish grin on his face. Still, I have enough worries without worrying about boys, so I decide not to react to his flirting – I do need his help though, so I smile back.
"Yeah, that'd be awesome." I make my voice a little lighter, more girly to disguise myself, to disguise the troubles someone who is sensible might be able to hear.
He takes the muffin and the coke, brushing my arm whilst doing it, and I adjust the coffees in my grip.
"I'm Will by the way." He says casually, and again I have to hide a smirk. He might be physically older than me, but his way of talking his still so gentle, so naïve, that it makes me feel old.
"Kiara."
We continue talking until we reach the labs, where he helps me take the coffees again.
"Have a good day, Kiara." He says, smiling, and then turns around and leaves.
I stand in front of the door for a moment, surprised by the kindness this random stranger has shown me for nothing. Then I shake my head once to clear it and enter the lab.
Sherlock simply reaches out his hand to take the cup, and looks up when I don't give it to him, worried I might drop everything.
Molly seems honestly surprised that I brought her anything, especially something she liked.
"How - ?" She starts asking, but then looks at Sherlock and nods slightly.
I see her sniffing at her coffee a minute later, and decide that she still doesn't trust me, but I don't comment on it.
At some point, Sherlock is finally done with what he wanted to do, and is out of the door so fast that I hurry after him. I catch up with him outside the hospital, where he has already flagged down a cab, and get in with him.
It's a short trip to the point where I want to get out. I haven't walked through London for some time, and I also want to get home. It's later than I had told Mycroft I'd be home, but after a quick text he won't worry.
The wind is a bit chilly, so I wrap my coat tighter around me. The quickest way to Mycroft is through the side-alleys, which I enter not long after.
Suddenly I hear running steps behind me, and I tense up. I'm maybe three meters away from the main street, not really in the side alley at all, but the last years have made me careful.
I keep walking, but when I feel a hand on my shoulder, I whip around, pushing the person against the wall with my forearm on their throat, my fist raised behind my head, ready for a punch.
That's when I realise it's Will, the boy I talked to in St Bart's, who is looking at me with wide eyes.
"My god, Kiara! Did you take martial arts or what?" Lowering my fist, I take a step back and breathe deeply to get my heartbeat under control again.
"Kind of. You just scared me, I'm sorry." I answer, realising too late that I spoke normally. He doesn't comment on it though, I'm not sure he notices.
"Well, who did you expect?" He asks worriedly and looks around.
"It's the side-alleys." I reply with a shrug.
"Why are you using them then?"
"They're quicker."
"I'll come with you, you'll be safe then."
I simply nod. Should a situation he's thinking about happen, it's not me I'm worried about.
Sherlock's POV:
Lestrade is long gone when Sherlock arrives back at Baker Street. According to John he left shortly after Kiara and Sherlock had left.
He never really appreciated 221B enough, Sherlock muses, now that he is playing his violin and looking down at the cars driving through the Baker Street. It slowly gets less, many cars still driving through despite the late hour.
At around ten o'clock Mycroft calls. Sherlock has half a mind not to answer, not wanting to deal with his annoying brother right now, but something sounding surprisingly like Kiara tells him to pick up.
"Mycroft? What do you want?" He questions, violin still in hand.
"Is Kiara at Baker Street?" Mycroft replies, and something in his voice is strained.
"No – she left the cab soon after we left St Bart's, to walk to your place. Where is she?"
"She texted me then, telling me she'd be here soon – that was two hours ago!" Sherlock can now hear the worry in his brother's voice, and he has to admit, he feels it as well. Kiara is very independent, but she is reliable.
"You called her already?"
"No answer. I'm currently looking through the CCTV as well, but she has an annoying habit of walking along blind-spots."
"Keep me updated." Sherlock hangs up, they both know there is something seriously wrong here. There is no reason for Kiara not to voluntarily walk home – she knows how dangerous London can be and knows the extent of the criminal world better than most.
John is still sitting in his chair, but he stopped typing on his laptop, looking up at Sherlock, concerned.
"Is everything okay?" He asks, but Sherlock can hear in his voice that he knows something is wrong.
"Kiara is missing."