Chapter 3
Sherlock smiled broadly as he finished his call to Molly, thanking his lucky stars that it had gone as well as it had. He'd been afraid that she'd just hang up on him, knew she almost had, but Molly Hooper was forgiving by nature and she loved him steadfastly, despite everything. Leaving her without any contact from him, and for so long, had been an agonising decision, but he knew it was the right one. The trail to Molly had to grow very cold if he was to thwart a killer of the calibre of Sebastian Moran. After he'd calmed his emotions the night she left Ireland, he'd realised that.
His mind wandered back to the first dark days as he'd resolutely stuck to his decision, and how awful it must have been for her as she began to realise he was not going to contact her. He knew how profoundly hurt she'd been, because he knew her. Knowing he was the cause of more pain and distress to her, because of a deliberate decision on his part, had tormented him. He'd spent the last long weeks constantly worried about her emotional well-being. Mycroft, at his insistence, had provided him with uncensored reports of her progress every evening. The few photo's he'd seen had concerned him the most, because she was thinner, and looked deeply unhappy.
This 'Assistant Director Mark McBride' had refused to send many 'unsolicited' photos of her, dictating that the daily reports were sufficient and there was no need for that level of 'intrusion' on Dr Hooper's privacy. He frowned possessively at the protectiveness of the AD's stance and then dismissed it, knowing he was being irrational. He acknowledged to himself, not for the first time, that Mycroft's choice of location for Molly was an inspired one. She was surrounded by apparently decent, motivating people, in a learning environment, and was able to work and train, instead of going out of her mind holed up in some hotel or house in the middle of nowhere.
And It was Mycroft who'd insisted that almost six weeks was long enough, and handed him the secure phone. "Call her today Sherlock, for all our sakes, because I need your head fully in the game here, and because you've been bloody unbearable, but mostly for Molly's sake, because that woman needs to hear your voice."
He felt the comfort and relief of finally conversing with her begin to sooth his heart and mind and he finally relaxed. She really was fine, in fact, she was bloody extraordinary, and what's more, she was still his. She had forgiven him his absence. He could focus now; Mycroft, damn him, was right, he hadn't been fully in the game, because he'd been half out of his mind with worry. Which wasn't to say that he had not made any progress.
Mary Watson, unsurprisingly, had been a tremendous resource. For weeks she had painstakingly raked through every face that had traversed the four doors of the large department store in Dublin along with the images of the people moving within it. As it turned out, she was one of the only people in the world that could identify Sebastian Moran and she'd explained that the only reason she was still alive today was because he didn't know she'd seen his face.
She'd told Sherlock and Mycroft that ten years ago, while she was 'freelance' she'd been approached to 'remove' a serious threat to a young Italian heiress. The seventeen year old had been aggressively stalked by a fifty year old man with a history of serious sexual offences, a man who was suspected of being responsible for the murders of at least two young prostitutes. In the last incident the teenager had very narrowly escaped from his clutches, thanks to a vigilant bodyguard. The young Italian girl was terrified and so was her father. He would do it himself, he'd told her, but he'd be arrested immediately.
Mary had agreed to the job, but as she closed in on her quarry she'd noticed another man observing and tracking the stalker too. She'd been alerted to the danger in him in a second and aborted the commission. Miraculously, he had not noticed her. She had dressed like a tourist and they were ten a penny in Rome and, as per usual, her gender played a large role in her anonymity. "Most men will never consider a woman to be a threat", she'd told them, raising a knowing eyebrow at Sherlock.
Mary's finely tuned instincts had saved her that day. Under pressure from Mary, the girls father had admitted that he'd hired someone else too, to ensure the success of the operation. He told her the little he knew. He was Irish, and that his name was Moran. Whether it was a pseudonym or not, she didn't know, but over the years his name had become almost mythical.
He was completely unscrupulous in the jobs he would take and was in it purely for financial gain. His method of operation was always the same, she explained. He would approach his victim, whether they were prime ministers, gangsters or simply a wealthy spouse, and have some type of interaction with them, much like he'd had with Molly. Then within a month, his target would be dead. He was purported to be ex IRA, (confirmed by Aoife and Mycroft), and also to have been Jim Moriarty's lover, although that was unsubstantiated.
Although she'd recognised him in his 'old man' outfit, that fateful night at the party, they needed a proper image. Yesterday, she'd finally spotted him, in all the thousands of images of people in the store. Just as Sherlock had deduced, Moran had discarded his 'old man's' wig, hat and coat to evade Aoife's security and the British agents in the store. They'd been found hanging on a rack of clothes in the mens department. "Smart", he'd mused, "hide a stone in a quarry," and when Moran had donned a branded recreational jacket, popular with the salubrious patrons of the Dublin store, he'd blended right in.
Moran had carefully choreographed his movements to avoid leaving any full facial image but for one split second, he'd made a mistake. As he'd made his way out of the rear entrance, a Garda car could be seen driving by, and he'd instinctively turned his face sharply to the right, just for a second, but it was enough. They had a facial shot and Sherlock knew what he looked like. And now, thanks to Mycroft, so did MI5, MI6, Interpol, Europol and the FBI and CIA. Every single agency wanted to get their hands on him. Sherlock had loved that. Now the hunter was also the hunted.
Mary had liked that too. John, on the other hand, hadn't liked Mary's involvement one little bit, but she'd assured him that Moran was clueless about her true identity. She'd also pointed out to him and Sherlock, quite smugly, that Sherlock had already beaten Moran in a way, because it was six weeks now and Molly was still alive. Moran's record was smashed.
Sherlock had always determined that there would be two strands to the investigation, and Michael Reilly, 'on secondment to Interpol', had not been idle either. Locating James Moriarty Senior encompassed 'part II'. Michael had put feelers out to all of the major US cities with Irish connections, which by definition, meant all major US cities. It was painstaking and careful work, but Michael had a talent for it. His instinct veered towards the Eastern seaboard cities, and Sherlock concurred with his view. New York, Boston, Philadelphia, even Washington DC had long established Irish communities, and he believed that it was where Moriarty had gone. One month in the US and Michael had called him to come over and join him. He had a lead.
Sherlock slipped the phone into his hand luggage and smirked into the mirror, thinking that If Molly could actually see him right now she'd probably kill him. His face, or rather, his image, was just too well known and so his trademark Balstaff coat and black curly hair were gone. Instead, he had wavy, dark auburn hair, cropped short at the sides and a little longer on top. Mr 'Declan Lawlor', a wealth businessman from Dublin, smirked back at him.
He'd arrived into Dublin airport hours earlier and as he went through the US immigration preclearance, he acknowledged once again that his brother could be extremely useful. As the Aer Lingus flight soared into the night sky, he settled back in his first class seat and allowed himself an indulgent smile. As soon as permitted, he reclined his seat and settled down to sleep, like he'd promised her he would. He was going to America, and that, by a very happy coincidence, was where his Molly was too.
Ten hours later 'Declan Lawlor' settled into his suite in Fitzpatrick's hotel on Lexington Avenue, Midtown East, Manhattan, NYC. Aoife had reiterated what he already knew. It was the favourite hotel for Irish business people and tourists alike. The Taoiseach stayed there when his visits were to the US were informal in nature. It was where deals were done, where Irish business people networked furiously and was also 'the place to be seen'. Aoife, with one phone call to the uber discreet owner/manager, had booked him into a suite on the top floor, for an indefinite period. From the time he'd left London, his South Dublin, 'a la Jim Moriarty,' accent was permanently in place. He grinned ruefully. He'd also had to brush up on his Irish rugby, especially staying in this hotel, and considering where he was meant to be from.
It was only five in the morning but he'd slept for hours on the plane. The uniquely Manhattan sounds of traffic and sirens and garbage trucks, muted though they were, infiltrated the room, and he liked the window open. Good hotel rooms seemed to always be cloyingly hot. He lay on the large bed and his mind drifted back to the last time he'd stayed in an Irish luxury hotel. He sighed and decided that was a very bad idea.
He showered and changed into black designer jeans, that fit him like a glove, a fitted black shirt and black cashmere jumper. Black fleece lined boots followed. He pulled on a deep woollen Hugo Boss short coat, wrapped an ice blue cashmere scarf around his neck and pulled on a black knit cap. It was a week to St Patrick's Day, and New York was freezing, but happily, snow free. Restless, he set out and walked the Manhattan streets for miles. He headed west and up Broadway, while the city woke up around him. He texted Michael and arranged to meet him for breakfast in Brooklyn.
Keeping in character, 'Declan' greeted Michael with a bear hug, much to his amusement, and the men chose a quiet booth where they couldn't be overheard. Michael scanned the appearance of his friend and grinned in approval. "It suits you, Jaysus, I'll be spending all my time driving the women away from you!" Sherlock rolled his eyes and then laughed ruefully.
"I seem to manage that very well on my own, Michael." Michael gave him a sympathetic look.
"Hardly, 'Deco' and don't you worry. We'll have it sorted soon enough. You did good yesterday, you and Mary."
"Well, it should piss him off at any rate, and emotional people make mistakes, as I have to keep reminding myself." Michael nodded and then asked him gently,
"So how is she doing?" He shrugged and then sighed and responded,
"I believe the expression is 'very well, considering'." He looked up at Michael and pain flashed across his eyes momentarily. "I was able to speak to her yesterday, finally. My brother assures me that our phones are hack proof now and he's never wrong." He smiled warmly at Michael then, "suffice to say we are both considerably better then we were twenty four hours ago, thank you, now, fill me in?"
So Michael did, and his lead was a strong one. He'd managed to track down a Dublin man, name of O'Neill who'd settled in New York for over twenty years, whom, his sources said, had known Jim Moriarty Senior in Dublin and then moved to New York shortly after him. The men were long time friends and had conducted business together in both countries. Rumour had it they'd parted ways amicably, were still in touch, and if anyone knew where Moriary was now, O'Neill did.
He owned and ran a hotel and bar, long suspected to be a front for more nefarious enterprises, in Woodlawn, an Irish community in upstate New York. According to Michael's sources, he could usually be found there most evenings. "And," he added, "he's decidedly dodgy. Small time, but dangerous, none the less. Known to carry a knife and usually has a couple of thugs with him." Sherlock grinned in delight.
"Oh brilliant! I've needed to let off steam for weeks!" and Michael roared laughing.
"I'd a feeling you'd say that! I'll email you what I have and drop into your hotel to collect you at about four o'clock."
Sherlock nodded, as the arrangement suited him. He'd go back to his hotel and review Michael's file, and maybe grab a couple of hours sleep. Jetlag was kicking in just a little and he wanted to be fresh. Before the men parted he thanked Michael for helping him, which Michael brushed off with a wink.
"Go on out of that, anyone would think we were friends." As he sauntered off down the path, Sherlock watched him go and said to himself quietly,
"They'd be right."
By midday he was back in his hotel room. He kicked off his boots and sitting up on the bed, he pulled out his mobile and called Molly, like he'd promised her he would. She answered after just two rings and he grinned smugly to himself, knowing she'd kept her phone close to her.
"Hello?" She said, and he couldn't seem to control it, his ridiculous heart leaping in his chest with one word from her.
"Hello yourself Doctor," sultry and deep, and she gasped in delight.
"Sherlock! oh my goodness, hi, hang on a minute..," he could hear the sound of a door closing and then she was back, "sorry, I'm in my office and the door was open. Are you still there?"
"I'm here Molly, how are you? How's your wrist?"
"I'm fine Sherlock, my wrist is ok, it looks emaciated and feels weird with the weight of the cast gone, but I'll start physiotherapy tomorrow, and that will sort it in no time, like you said." He sighed unhappily,
"I had wanted you to attend the best clinic in London but, well, needs must, I suppose," and she tutted gently at him.
"Stop fussing you, It was a very straightforward break, and they do know what they're doing here."
"I know Molly, but it feels like yet another promise to you that I've broken." Molly stilled, knowing there was fathoms more to that statement, indicative of his state of mind, then he'd knowingly revealed.
"Sherlock Holmes, you stop that right now! We may have had to postpone some plans we've made, but you have never broken a promise to me, not a single one!"
"Molly..."
"No, that's enough. You listen here. You promised to protect me, and you have. I hate being separated from you, but I am safe. You promised to catch Janine, and you did. You promised me you'd refurbish Baker Street so we can start our lives together, and you are. You never promised to contact me here immediately, that awful night I had to leave you, you actually said 'when you could', so you did not break your word, even though I confess I was devastated by your silence." She drew in a long shaky breath, "But, most important of all Sherlock, you promised that you love me, and I know, in my heart and soul, that you do. So never think that you've broken a promise to me, my love, because you most certainly have not."
Sherlock listened to her words in stunned silence. For a while he could not respond, he could not speak, and Molly waited him out.
"How do you do that Molly?" He whispered into his phone.
"Do what Sherlock?" she responded tenderly.
"See inside me Molly..,fortify me, inspire me, astonish me, humble me, sooth me, heal me, with just a few sentences?"
"because you let me Sherlock, you've always let me." He closed his eyes and smiled, because he knew she was right. He cleared his throat.
"I'd very much like to get my hand's on you right now Dr Hooper." He purred down into the phone and Molly giggled.
"And God knows you have magnificent hands, Mr Holmes." He laughed deep in his throat.
"Well, you certainly examined them in Bart's lab often enough, along with other parts of my anatomy..."
"Well, those 'other parts' are pretty impressive too, Sherlock, and, lets be honest, you do know how to accentuate them to their greatest advantage." Sherlock spluttered with laughter.
"I don't know what you're talking about, Molly Hooper!"
"Yeah you do! Tell me, I've always wondered, do you have those trousers sewn on each morning?" and he threw back his head and roared with laughter.
"I merely have the luxury of an excellent tailor." Molly snorted.
"With an exacting client.." and he shook with laughter again.
"There's no quarter with you Molly, is there?" and she exhaled a laugh and answered him lovingly,
"Oh there is for you Sherlock, there always has been, you know that."
"I do know it Molly.." he paused, and then whispered, "Christ, I want you Molly." She sucked in a breath.
"I want you too, very badly. I cannot wait until you fill me again, until I can wrap my arms and legs around you tightly, and bind you to me. I swear to God Sherlock, when this is over we are going straight back to Ireland, to Aoife's wonderful house, and we are locking ourselves in. I will have that week with you." He hummed at her and then, eyebrow up,
"bind, Molly?" and she giggled again,
"I meant metaphorically, you git!" and he chuckled, and said, "I think we'll need more then a week Molly." and she laughed ruefully and agreed with him. He said goodbye then and told her he hoped to call her the next day too.
"Sherlock," she said, "It's ok if you can't. I am not going to ask you any questions, or pressure you, or make any demands of you. That is not how this works, it is not how we work. We'll get through this, however long it takes, and we'll be the stronger for it. This will not break us. It will be the making of us. OK?" Her strength astonished him, yet again, and he realised then that it always would.
"OK Molly."
"Oh and Sherlock? I'm just going to leave you with one more thing."
"What is it Molly?"
"I'm very toned now!" and the minx hung up the phone. Sherlock laughed long and hard, and settling down for a nap, he once again thanked his lucky stars that he had Molly Hooper.