It only took Mycroft Holmes a few phone calls to smooth over the shooting business in Dover. The local news was fed a fabricated story that the shooter was attempting to mug a tourist couple, and that no one was seriously hurt. The police closed their investigation but were ordered to search for and detain the escaped gunmen. An hour later he received a phone call that one of the men had been captured.
Mycroft quickly called for his car to be brought around and told the driver to head for Dover. When he arrived at the police station, he was immediately ushered into an interrogation room, where a youth in his early twenties was sitting handcuffed on the other side of a metal table. His head was shaved, he had multiple tattoos covering his skin, and gauges weighed down his ears. His eyes were apprehensive, and his hands were shaking somewhat.
"Ah, Mr. Jones, or whatever your name really is. So glad you could make it." Mycroft leaned his umbrella against the wall and sat down in the folding chair opposite him.
Mr. Jones only glared at him.
"I wouldn't suggest you carry out your plan of using my umbrella as a weapon against me; I have a rather thick skull. Apart from that, there are three officers on the other side of that glass who have no qualms about killing you on the spot."
The criminal looked surprised for a moment, but he instantly hid it behind a scowl. He did slide back in his chair, however, his eyes flitting warily to the one-way mirror that spanned the lefthand wall.
"Now I don't have very much time, Mr. Jones, so I'll be brief. Your boss wants my brother and sister-in-law dead, which is a highly inconvenient situation that I'm afraid I must intervene in. All I need for you to do is tell me the whereabouts of Victor Bliss."
"Why would I tell you?" Mr. Jones spat on the concrete floor near Mycroft's feet.
"Because I have the strings that control your future firmly within my grasp. Things could be…shall we say…unpleasant if you don't comply," Mycroft said. "I hardly think you owe him your life."
The youth hesitated. "Listen, I didn't kill nobody. It was my partner who shot your brother, not me. And I don't know nothink about Bliss either. 'e gave me my instructions through email, see, and 'e made sure they couldn't be tracked. The 'appy little couple are gonna snuff it whether you like it or not, mate."
Mycroft flashed him a cold, tight smile. "Your concern is touching, I assure you. But I wouldn't put too much faith in your former employer. Sometimes even the faintest of bread crumb trails can be traced back to its creator." He stood up and hooked his umbrella over the crook of his arm, preparing to leave. "I shall be requiring the use of your laptop computer, which I'm sure you'll be more than willing to oblige. Good day, Mr. Jones. I do hope you enjoy your extended stay here. You'll feel right at home in no time at all."
"This is a bad idea, Sherlock. A very bad idea."
"Yes yes, I sort of picked up on that after the first fifty times you said it. But that's precisely why it's our best option. They won't expect it."
"There's nowhere else we can go?"
"We could get a hotel room, but I don't have enough cash for an extensive stay."
Molly sighed. "Alright. I don't like this, and I did warn you, but alright."
Sherlock pulled into a winding dirt drive that led to a modestly-sized stone house, hidden from the main road by a row of evergreen trees. Molly drug her feet as they got out and walked up to the front door, trying to put off reaching it as long as possible. Sherlock impatiently rang the doorbell.
A short woman with graying blond hair swept up into a twist and calculating brown eyes opened the door. As she surveyed them, her expression grew stony.
"Hello, Mum," Molly said quietly.
"Well well well! I don't know what you're thinking, Molly. I haven't seen hide or hair of you for an entire year, and then I learn from a news station that you've gone and married…him." Mrs. Hooper looked at Sherlock with extreme disapproval.
"So very lovely to see you again too, Colleen, but would it be possible to continue this bickering out of the open?" Sherlock asked.
Colleen Hooper moved ever so slightly aside, which Sherlock took as his cue. He thanked her and pulled Molly inside with him. As they moved toward the sitting room, Molly shrugged off her coat and held it in front of her midriff to hide her bump. She knew her mother's reaction to that bit of news would be far more intense than when she discovered why they needed to stay there.
"Out with it. Why are you here, and why don't you want to be seen?" Colleen demanded. She sat in the flowery armchair opposite the couch her daughter and son-in-law had settled on and crossed both her arms and legs. Her demeanor could hardly be described as pleasant.
Molly gulped. "Mum, I'm really sorry about not ringing you or coming for a visit. A lot has happened lately."
"You should never be too busy for your own mother, Molly."
"I know." Molly looked down at her lap and bit her lip.
Sherlock didn't like the change that was coming over her. She was losing her confidence, reverting to the shy, awkward pathologist of yesteryear who was too scared to stand up for herself. He immediately knew where that identity had originated. "Colleen, you saw the news report about the Bliss family that Molly and I put in jail. Oscar Bliss's son, Victor, escaped a few months ago and is now out for our blood. He hired a number of hit men and set them on our trail. We've shaken them a few times, but it appears Victor has memorized our habits. My brother—he holds a position in the government—is working on Victor's recapture and the elimination of his hired hands, but in the meantime, we need a safe house."
"See, Molly? This is exactly why I was against you running around with this bloke. He attracts danger like a magnet!" Colleen shook her head.
"Colleen Hooper, Molly is thirty-four years old and can make her own choices on who she associates with and marries. Bullying her won't help the situation in the least," Sherlock snapped.
"Bullying her? What right do you have to come into my house and accuse me of bullying my daughter, young man?"
"Accusations are my line of work. And it's the truth. You've always been a control freak, whether in regards to the state of your house or your family." Sherlock glanced around the spotlessly-clean sitting room. There wasn't a speck of dust to be seen, or a magazine even a centimeter out of place. "Why else do you think Molly's older brother moved to Australia as soon as he could afford it? And why your family and friends rarely ring you, or come 'round? This house hasn't had a guest in months."
"How dare you!" Colleen's eyes were wide with a mixture of shock and anger.
Molly felt queasy all of a sudden. Nervous as she was, she hadn't expected to be in the middle of a shouting match between her mother and her husband, and she didn't particularly like it. "Sherlock, please don't," she begged, but he didn't seem to hear her. There was a storm brewing in his gaze.
"It's about time someone stood up to you, Colleen. Ever since your husband's death, you've grown increasingly worse, and you refuse to see it."
Colleen was livid. She rose to her feet, her hands balled into fists. "OUT! Both of you! You can find another safe house. You brought this upon yourselves!"
"Oh come now. If you send us away, you're practically delivering a death sentence. Do you want your daughter and your grandchild murdered?"
All of the color drained from Colleen's face. She looked at Molly. "Grandchild?"
Molly couldn't handle it anymore. She tossed her coat aside and raced up the stairs, focusing on each step so she wouldn't trip and fall. They heard a door slam somewhere above them a moment later.
"Do you mean to say that my Molly is…pregnant?" All of the wind dissipated from Colleen's sails. She sunk back into the armchair.
"Yes. She's three months along. The stress of all this hasn't made it any easier, either." Sherlock abruptly jumped up and followed Molly, leaving his mother-in-law to digest this monumental piece of information on her own.