~xXx~
"Is…is it her?" Molly asked, shifting nervously on her feet and very obviously wanting to peer over Sherlock's shoulder at the file laid out on the table in front of him.
"Yes," Sherlock replied monotonously, trying his best to ignore Molly's close proximity. He really wished she would stand somewhere else—her hovering was blocking his main source of light. Not to mention she was wearing too much of that odd smelling perfume again, and it was beginning to give him a headache. He'd briefly considered saying something, but every time the words were about to escape him, all he could hear was John's voice in his head saying, You could try being nice for once, Sherlock. For some reason, that was enough to quell his tongue.
Shaking thoughts of John from his mind, Sherlock continued flipping through the dead woman's employment records. As it turned out, her name was Sylvia Yaskoff. 66 years of age, wife to Jonathon Yaskoff, and employee at St. Bart's since 1983. She'd started off as a professor and residential instructor, working her way up through the ranks before being promoted to head of general surgery in the late nineties. Boring. Sherlock flipped a page. Boring. And another. Boring, boring, boring! Why in the world would Moriarty send him this woman? Annoyed, Sherlock snapped the folder shut and thrust it back in Molly's general direction.
"Oh!" Molly scrambled to catch the folder as Sherlock released it from his hold. She righted herself quickly, pushing a stray fringe of hair back behind her ear. "I guess you didn't find what you wanted then?"
Sherlock laid his elbows on the table and propped his chin on the tips of his fingers. "Obviously."
"I'm sorry."
"Why?"
Molly made a nervous sort of squeaking noise. "I—I dunno."
Sherlock hummed, his mind already back on Sylvia. Perhaps there was a reason she had to be an employee at St. Bart's. After all, Moriarty had obviously known that Sherlock frequented the location—he wouldn't have gone after Molly otherwise. But why her? Why this particular woman? Because there had to be a reason. The first thing Sherlock had been instructed to do was make a connection, but that was almost impossible without another body to inspect. So what was he supposed to do? Just wait around until tomorrow, when he had been promised another victim? No…Moriarty wouldn't make him wait—he was too proud for that. There was something here—something he was missing…
"Sherlock?"
Clenching his jaw against the acerbic words that burned at the back of his throat, the detective turned to face her. He could hear John's voice again—Intelligent. Fine. Let's give smartass a wide berth. Sherlock pursed his lips, resisting the urge to bite the inside of his cheek. "Yes?" There. That was pleasant and ordinary enough wasn't it? He almost went to look for John, knowing one glance from him would tell if the word had been barbed or not, but stopped himself just in time, and looked at Molly instead.
Their eyes connected, and Molly's cheeks went red. "It's…it's really good to see you, is all. I didn't think I ever would again—especially not so soon."
"Yes, well," Sherlock thrummed his fingers on the countertop, "this is a one-time ordeal I can assure you."
"What?"
"We've been over this, Molly," Sherlock said, his voice low and stern.
"Yes I know but," her throat seemed to tighten, "Jim is dead now. It's all over, isn't it? There's no reason why you couldn't come back."
"And assume nothing like this would ever happen again?" Sherlock rebutted scathingly. "Don't be naïve—you've read John's blog." His heart stuttered so violently that it seemed to push all the oxygen out of his lungs. It was the first time he'd allowed himself to utter John's name since the fall. Sherlock rubbed at his chest, his brow furrowing with annoyance. Really, this was beginning to get ridiculous.
Molly shook her head, clutching the folder tightly to her chest. "I don't know what you mean."
"What he said." Sherlock gestured impatiently. "The entry he made on March 28 last year."
She continued to look at him vacantly.
Sherlock blew out a quick breath. "Honestly, don't you people ever pay attention to anything? He said, quote, 'All these people he involves in his adventures…They're not safe. We're not safe.' Unquote. Don't you see, Molly? John knew that my enemies—people like Moriarty—would see you, him, Mrs. Hudson, everyone, as ways to get at me. John knew he'd eventually become a target. He knew it even before I did!"
"Yeah, he knew and he still stayed! Can't you see that he—!" She snapped her mouth shut, her gaze abruptly dropping to the ground and her bottom lip rolling beneath the line of her teeth. "Don't you think that means something?"
"It doesn't matter." Sherlock rose from his stool, his eyes dropping to the floor as well. "I can't afford to have that kind of leverage held over me again." He took a couple steps forward, brushing past Molly and aiming for the door, but something stopped him. That single moment seemed to hold him still, its vagarious bindings wrapping around his limbs and weighing him to the ground. It was just curiosity, or so he told himself. His heart gave another painful flutter. He wondered…he couldn't help but wonder. It was his nature after all, and it would be so easy to ask…just to ask…"How is he?" Sherlock was surprised by the softness in his own voice. "I—" He shook himself, ignoring the way his ribcage seemed to constrict against his lungs and began walking forward once more. "Never mind."
"He's been avoiding me," Molly said quickly, causing Sherlock to pause once more. "He's completely ignored my calls and texts, but I did manage to get a hold of Mrs. Hudson a couple days ago, and…he's not doing well, Sherlock."
Sherlock rocked back and forth uncertainly. "He's mourning—that's what people do when someone dies isn't it? It'll pass soon enough."
"You act like it's selfishness, but I know you think that playing dead will make it so that the people you care about won't be in danger anymore. But it's not going to work, Sherlock. If any of those people that hate you so much as caught wind that you were alive, who do you think they'd go after first to draw you out of hiding? If you're trying to keep him safe, this isn't the way to do it…"
"It's whom."
"What?"
Sherlock sighed. "It's 'whom do you think they'd go after'. Really, Molly, you're a doctor, you should know—"
"For goodness sake, Sherlock—" Molly started forward, but being clumsy footed as ever, somehow managed to catch the heel of her boot on the hem of her trousers. She stumbled forward, Sylvia's file flying from her arms and falling to the floor in a flurry of papers. Looking on the verge of tears, Molly dropped to her knees and began sweeping the contents back together. "I—I know you're not very good at this kind of thing—people I mean…but he was your best friend. And I saw the way you two were together. I saw it. And the way you changed after you met him—"
"Stop."
Molly looked up at him, her eyes large and rimmed with red. "I—I'm sorry. It's not my place, I know, but—what are you doing?"
Sherlock swept forward and kneeled down in front of her. He reached out, his fingers gliding along a page and pushing it to the side…and there it was. It was a small, yellowed piece of paper, crumpled and old, and covered in Moriarty's handwriting. The detective plucked the sheet off the ground and held it out for examination. He'd meant to inspect the condition of the material itself first, but his eyes were hungry for the words. The paper had been ripped however—purposefully, judging by the way the tear wrapped carefully around certain words—so that the message was segmented in parts.
Dr. Sylvia,
I'm afraid it's time to call in that favor of mine. I've been keeping a—
on your work, and I think this could come together quite well. There's—
in your keeping that would be of great use to me. You'll know him as—
he's just the sort of specimen I've been looking for. I'm sure you've seen—
Well it's very important that you convince him to consider going to—
for me. Don't you worry yourself about the logistics of the matter—
will be expecting him soon. There's a good girl. Now, do remember—
the last time someone crossed me. I'm sure you don't want to find—
in that situation ever again. I look forward to hearing of your success soon—
Until next time, dollface.
~M
So Sylvia had had connections with Moriarty? But how? Why? Sherlock waved these questions off—they weren't important. Not really. The important thing was what the letter meant. It had obviously been placed there by someone who had wanted him to find it. Personal notes didn't just find their way into employee files on their own. The question was—had Sylvia put it there herself, or had it been Moriarty's puppet? Either way it was a clue—a potential catalyst to the connection he needed.
Sherlock smiled as he pocketed the letter and rose swiftly to his feet, spinning on his heel and making for the door. He needed to stop by an orchestra shop on his way home to pick up a spare violin. It wouldn't be the same as his one at Baker Street, but he didn't have time to be picky—he needed something that would help him think. A rudimentary chemistry set might also—
"Sherlock!"
Molly's voice jerked him back into reality. Frowning, Sherlock turned.
"I—" Molly's eyes seemed larger than ever, and they stood out like black coals against the white snow of her skin. She was standing again, the contents of Sylvia's file balanced precariously in her arms. "So that's it then? You leave and…and that's it?"
"Yes, Molly." Sherlock lowered his chin. "That's it."
"But—"
"Don't tell John," Sherlock said before whipping around once more, his coat tails billowing as he rushed out the door.
