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Chapter Eight, In Which There is a Record of Wrongs

Sherlock recognized the perfume almost immediately as Clair de la Lune.

"Where do I know it?" he mumbled, filtering through all of his female acquaintances and their personal scents in his mind.

"Mary wears it," John answered, focused on monitoring Janine's condition.

"No, no…" Why would Mary's perfume be here in Magnusson's office? Sherlock made a mental note to correct John on his blatantly idiotic deductions later. Did he seriously think at all about what he had just said? Really, after offering to call the police during their own burglary of Magnusson's office, this was just too much. John's mind had gotten even rustier these past few weeks without him.

And then the match fit – "Lady Smallwood," he realized under his breath. She'd gotten impatient, wanted to protect her husband herself. Sherlock scoffed. Human error.

It wasn't Lady Smallwood.

That fact was seared into his mind as surely as the bullet seared through his torso.

Liar.

Mary.

It's not like in the movies, is it?

SLAP.

His lifeline.

Focus. Focus.

Sherlock, you need to fall backwards.

I agree.

Of course you agree, Anderson, you're an idiot, and Molly -

Fall backwards, now.

Calm down, little brother.

Redbeard.

Molly again, with Josephine's shadow – and that word, echoing – control. Self…control.

Moriarity.

You always FEEL it, but you don't have to FEAR it.

It's raining, it's pouring and Sherlock is boring.

I'm laughing, I'm crying, 'cause Sherlock is dying.

Calm down. Let go.

Mrs. Hudson. Mummy and Daddy. John.

Molly – no, not Molly. Jim didn't know about Molly.

Mary. Mary the liar. John.

Vows.

No pain.

Pain.

Darkness.

John was too distracted, too concentrated on saving his best friend's life to call anyone until after Sherlock was back from the dead – again.

Figures the bloody wanker would cheat death twice.

And he's so, so glad.

Molly was – where else – at work when she received the call from John. His voice was odd, thick with some hard emotion and she could tell he'd been – crying? But he was also laughing.

"John? What - what's wrong?"

He swore some, under his breath, and then laughed again, too high in pitch, and it made Molly's heart constrict. "John?"

"He's – he's all right Molly. No. He's not all right. He's – he's alive."

"Who's alive?" Her voice dropped low again, but she knew exactly whom John meant.

"Sherlock. Don't worry Molly – don't…he's…well, you might want to come see him. I…well, I've called everyone…and you all…he's going to need us. Course he'll never admit it, bloody -"

"John, what happened?"

Silence on the other end, and she could tell John was trying to compose himself. "He got himself shot."

"Shot?" Molly breathed, and her hands were shaking again.

"Yes, shot, but he's going to live, he's going to live." And he'd started laughing and crying, and Molly realized it was relief. Even though she knew that she'd be giddy with relief soon as well, she hadn't lived through the shock part yet, and it was hitting her hard, now.

She gasped as she remembered to breathe, and ended her call with John after finding out where he and Sherlock were located. This was, with the exception of the week her father died, the worst week of her life.

John was fairly joyful with relief as he watched his wife bound up the stairs.

"He's already bloody woken up," he greeted her, unable to wipe the grin off his face. "He's pulled through!"

"Really? Seriously?" Mary said, relief in her voice as well.

"Yeah, yeah. And you," he added, shaking a finger at her, teasing, still ecstatic at the news that his best friend was alive, "Mrs. Watson. You're in big trouble."

"Really? Why?" Her face betrayed nothing, nothing but concern and relief for her husband.

"His first word when he woke up?" He shook his head. "Mary!" And his grin was back, and she threw her arms around him.

Her face fell as she rested her cheek on his jacket. She needed to talk to Sherlock.

Molly stood, wringing her hands, tears burning her eyes, at the foot of Sherlock's hospital bed. She had never seen him like this, and it hurt her. She was not going to cry in front of him, though, not ever, not even when he was unconscious, and she needed to be strong for him. She needed to be calm, and so, even though others might judge, she put on her pathologist hat and thought of him as a living body (which thankfully, he was, of course), and she looked at his chart.

He would live. Obviously. What was she even doing here? Even if he were awake, nothing she could say would help him. He'd probably criticize her for trying. And she was still angry with him over his relapse. She'd forgiven him, of course, but she was still angry.

"Well, looks like you'll have to wait just a bit longer to visit me in the morgue. As one of my patients, I mean."

She could almost hear his voice in her head, and so, because it was so quiet, and she could barely stand the whoosh of the respirator and the beep of the heart monitor, she said what she knew he would say, if he were awake. "I know, I know Sherlock. Don't make jokes, Molly."

And then, she added, "Sorry. I really am glad you're not dead."

Another awkward pause. "This is really stupid of me, isn't it?"

She babbled on, "I know you would think so if you were awake, and it won't make a difference in the slightest, but I am so, so very glad you're not dead. I never want to see you dead."

Another pause, and Molly's voice changed - lower now. "That's why I slapped you, Sherlock. Even with that brilliant mind of yours, in a drug-stupor, you could be killed. By something stupid, like a dirty knife or another druggie or a fall or an overdose – and I know, I know that you've cheated death twice now, but they always say third time's the charm, and you're too…you to be killed by something stupid like that."

"And I'm not sorry I slapped you. I'm sorry…I'm not." A sigh, and a whisper. "Well, maybe a little sorry."

Molly knew she needed to leave. This was pointless, and she felt embarrassed, despite knowing that no one could hear her.

Before she turned to go, she took a step closer to him, and whispered again, sadly gazing at his pale face. She wanted to touch him, to lay her hand over his, or perhaps on his cheek, but she knew he'd hate it if she did that. So she settled for folding her arms and picking absently at the fuzz on her jumper. "You told me once you hoped I'd be happy. That I deserved happiness. Don't know about that, but I do know this. If you think that for one moment I could be happy knowing you're out somewhere shooting drugs, you're not half as smart as you think you are."

Again, another admission. He was asleep anyways. Besides, this felt good, telling him everything. Like therapy. "I've tried to – to sever my happiness from your well-being, Sherlock. Heaven knows I've tried. But I'm starting to accept the fact that even though you'll never love me, like I - do, I'll…well. I'll always be here. Always. Every time. If you need me."

That was enough. She swallowed the lump in her throat and shrugged stiffly. "Still angry though. You're bloody lucky, Sherlock. And – and I'm so glad."

She turned and walked, tired, from the room.

She was wrong, on several accounts. First, Sherlock was not asleep. He was conscious, but barely so. He was vaguely aware of her in the room, and her voice was distant to him, and blurred occasionally, but he could hear her.

She was wrong, too, about herself. It did make a difference, her coming to see him. Her voice, her real voice, not the voice in his head, assured him that he was, in fact, still alive. Of course, most of the other things she said did nothing to help him in the slightest (words do not heal bullet wounds), but he did find that they…lifted an invisible burden from his chest.

It was probably just coincidence. She'd just happened to say she was sorry she slapped him at the same time his mind and body registered the morphine in his system. But then, she'd thrown his words (you deserve happiness, Molly Hooper) back at him, and his chest had constricted again, and then lifted again when she said that she'd always be there for him. Still, he had to admit that having her in the room had not been an awful experience. He felt a slight pang when he realized that she didn't know yet, about the proposal, and Janine.

Finally, and most importantly, she was wrong on one last account – he wasn't lucky. He knew that shot was very carefully planned.

You don't tell John, Sherlock. You can never, never tell John.

And he wouldn't. Mary would tell him herself.

John was in a panic again. Sherlock was missing – he'd escaped his hospital room, and was on the run, doing who-knows-what. Luckily, John was not only used to Sherlock, he was a veteran of war. Even with panic in his stomach, he was in control enough to call everyone he could think of to hunt Sherlock down.

He and Greg were pacing Sherlock's flat, trying to make some deductions of their own.

"He knew who shot him. The bullet wound was, here," John said, indicating the location of Sherlock's wound on his own chest. "So he was facing whoever it was."

Greg nodded. "So, why not tell us?" He groaned in realization. "Because he's tracking them down himself."

"Or protecting them," John added.

"Protecting the shooter? Why?"

John shook his head. "Well, protecting someone, then. But why would he care? He's Sherlock. Who would he bother protecting?"

And then, as he sat down in the armchair, his armchair, Sherlock's words from the wedding come back in an echo. He patted the arms of the chair, frowning.

"Call me if you hear anything. Don't hold out on me, John. " Greg said sternly. "Call me, okay?"

John nodded, looking back at the inspector. "Yeah. Yeah. Right."

After Greg had let himself out and Mrs. Hudson was on her way to make him a cuppa, he stopped her. "Mrs. Hudson? Why does Sherlock think that I'll be moving back in here?"

She stopped for a moment, then realized he what he was referring to. "Oh, he's got your chair back again, doesn't he? Well," she dismissed, "it looks much better."

John didn't really hear her. He was staring, frowning, at the bottle of perfume on the table next to his chair. Realization was dawning on him, and it was as black as the night outside his window.

"John, what's wrong? Tell me."

But he couldn't tell her. He couldn't tell her everything that was right in the world was suddenly very, very wrong.

"Show me."

"Ah. A dummy. Obvious trick." Mary flipped a coin in the air, shooting it clean through, and kicking it to Sherlock when he surprised her from behind.

"Amazing. And yet, at a distance of six feet, you failed to make a kill shot. Enough to hospitalize me, not enough to kill me." This was for John's benefit, of course. All this was for John. His vow.

"I'll take the case."

"What case?"

"Your case." He wrinkled his nose in disgust. "Why didn't you come to me in the first place?"

"Because John can't ever know that I lied to him. It would break him, and I would lose him forever, and Sherlock, I will never let that happen. Please – understand –there is nothing in this world I would not do, to stop that from happening."

But she underestimated John. Sherlock knew, he knew that this secret would not break him. Bend and twist him painfully, perhaps, but not break him, and he deserved to know the truth. "Sorry," he said, flipping the light switch and revealing John in the wheelchair down the hall. "It's not that obvious a trick."

Molly's second visit to Sherlock in the hospital was less pleasant for him. He was fully conscious, for one thing, and her words were not sweet or low. He had prepared himself for this, of course. He had carefully reviewed Jo's mind palace files on self control and was also grateful for the machinery and hospital atmosphere around him. It would make her decidedly less likely to slap him again.

"How could you. How could you, Sherlock? You're good – you're not him. You're not like him. So why did you do this? Why -?"

"Molly." His voice, deep and full of resignation and warning and all sorts things that she couldn't quite place, stopped her.

"It was for the greater good. I've already heard this lecture from John, and I can assure you that what you're saying is nothing new."

"But why, Sherlock?"

His rolled his eyes, refusing to meet her own. "It was for a case, Molly. The man I am after is like a shark. He takes what he wants and leaves a trail of blood and destruction in his wake, as you are well aware." He gestured at himself.

"But why?" She said, and there were tears in her eyes.

"You mean why did I date Janine? Why did I seduce her, court her, gain her trust and use her to get to someone else, someone more important than herself?"

Molly winced, and he realized that he had just implied that he was more important than her. Which, while probably true, was also probably not good.

"The ends justify the means." His gaze was full on her, now.

Molly gritted her teeth and looked away, still refusing to cry. "You're a git."

He smirked. "Most likely."

And then he grunted, eyeing his morphine again. It was low, of course – he needed to think, but the pain was returning, and he'd have to turn it up soon.

"Well, Sherlock, you could've told me. Or John. Or anyone. You could've told us, about the case."

"No, I couldn't." His voice told her she was trying his patience.

"Sherlock," she said sadly, as she reached out her hand, then thought better of it and tucked it under her armpit, crossing her arms. "Sherlock, we know what kind of man you are. We're friends. You should have trusted us."

At her words, Sherlock sat up a bit straighter, eyes wide. He had just realized something.

Molly startled. "Are – are you okay? Are you in pain? Do you need something?"

He looked at her, his eyes boring holes into her heart. "I do trust you, Molly. It's the rest of the world I don't trust. Which is why I'm going to ask you to do something else for me. Do you remember Billy Wiggins?"

She snorts, suppressing a smile. "You mean 'Wiggy'?" She joked half-heartedly.

A smile twitched at his lips, and he dismissed the nickname with a wave of his hand. "Find him for me."

As an afterthought. "Please."

Sarah Jane received the text from Sherlock as she was reading The Scorpio Races. Her sister had read it several times to her the past two years, but she always loved to reread her favorite parts.

She frowned, and a hopeful sort of sadness pierced her chest. Maybe this was his apology, and she'd get to work on something of his again. He wasn't even supposed to have her number, but he was Sherlock Holmes, after all.

Can glasses be built that have the ability to access a remote hard drive database? – SH

Sarah swallowed. Of course it wasn't an apology. Jo had warned her not to expect one for a while. She'd also told her that if he contacted her at all, she was to tell Jo and ignore him.

"He needs to apologize before we help him again, Sarah. You're not a tool. Do you understand?"

Sarah Jane understood. But this was just a simple question. She could answer it.

Possible. Not probable, though.

She sent the text, wondering if he would reply.

He didn't. He didn't even thank her.

Molly came to visit him one more time before he was released. She had been very helpful, as always. He could tell that she was nervous about something, this time, and he scowled. He was done with hospital beds, and visitors, and was ready to get back to the game. His plan for taking Magnusson down was in action, and he didn't have time to listen to sentimental lectures again.

"Sherlock."

"If you're here to lecture me again, I can assure you I've memorized your speech." And deleted it, had added to himself. He didn't have time for this.

Molly pursed her lips, and from her stance (arms crossed firmly, right hand nervously picking at the lint on her jumper, biting her lower lip, eyes refusing to meet his immediately) he could tell that she was not here to lecture him on relapsing, or on using Janine. This was something else.

"You look….guilty."

He stopped himself from completing an eye roll. "Molly-"

"No, stop it – just - let me finish." She finally met his eyes, and a snort of nervous laughter told him she realized that this savored strongly of something they'd done before, something that seems like ages ago, now.

"You look guilty, but it's not about drugs or being an arse or even getting shot and being stupid and worrying everyone to death. You're not sorry about those things, and, well, maybe you're sorry about getting shot – sorry." She took a breath and continued.

"You look guilty about something you haven't done yet. Something you're planning. And you know my position on doing stupid things like pushing all of your friends away when - well, sorry. No lecturing. But…I'm still angry with you. Furious, actually. What I mean is…even though I'm angry, I still – I still l- I still care about you; you're still my friend. If there's anything you need…" and she couldn't help it, and Sherlock groaned internally a bit at the echo from the past as she finished "-you can have me."

She laughed nervously through her nose again, just a bit, and watched him with large brown eyes, waiting.

And he looked right back into them, and his heart constricted just a bit, but he blamed it on his recovery. She was such a good person, and he didn't deserve a friend like her. He sighed, and his lips twitched into a small, genuine smile. She was still waiting for a reply, an explanation, but he couldn't really give her one.

"I think we've done this before."

"Sherlock."

"I can assure you I'm not jumping off any buildings this time."

"That doesn't mean you're not planning something equally dangerous. And stupid."

"It doesn't require 'shooting up' again either. Or getting shot at."

"Good. Still doesn't mean it's not something stupid."

"Don't you trust me, Molly Hooper?"

"I trust you! I trust you to try and be a hero and save the world all by yourself. I trust you to save everyone's life but your own. And I…I don't -want…I don't want you to get hurt. Again. When you're hurt…Sherlock. I'm unhappy." Her eyes had tears in them now, and his chest constricted again. The doctors didn't do a very good job of stitching him back together.

He paused, and resisted the irrational urge to tuck a stray piece of hair behind her ear. His observations on emotions did indicate that physical contact was comforting, but he couldn't touch her now. He realized that she was worried, and she was using his own words to try to keep him from his work. He smirked, then frowned. He was a bad influence on her. "Molly Hooper. What I am doing, what I am planning to do, I am doing for a friend. John will be with me. I'll be fine." It's a little bit of a lie, but there was enough truth in it that she started to believe him.

She stared at the floor before looking at him one more time. "If you need anything…"

"I won't." He couldn't ask her for help again, not when he suspects what he suspects.

Her eyes met his again, and she was still sad, but the tears were gone, and she was satisfied for now.

She nodded and turned to go, but paused and looked back again. "Be careful," she whispered, and then she was gone.

It took until Christmas for John to truly forgive Mary. They say love covers over a multitude of wrongs, but one could understand love taking its time to cover a wrong so immense. And Mary wasn't the type to chase down a tube car full of explosives in order to garner forgiveness. Probably couldn't now, even if she wanted to, being pregnant and all.

Sherlock knew that John would forgive Mary. He loved her after all.

Personally, he hadn't needed to forgive her. He understood that she was protecting her best interests, and John, and she had shot him to save all three of them. Those were the facts, and he accepted them, and accepted Mary, as they were.

But Magnusson was still a ticking time bomb, and he needed to be stopped. Or, keeping with Mycroft's analogy, he needed to be slayed. He'd put the plan in motion, and soon the record of wrongs that Magnusson had so carefully collected and constructed around him would bury him.