So these really have no overarching story. I think each one will have some sort of theme though. Today's theme: The Booth At The End (Excellent Hulu original show)
After Sherlock raced to Molly's flat at four in the morning, he found himself having a bit of an off day which was extremely peculiar as he never had off days. It started with tripping over one of the experiments resting in his bedroom. That never happened, and had taken several days to properly set up. Then while on a case, his coat snagged on a random hook (who leaves a random rusty hook alongside the wall of an alley for God's sake?) thus allowing the man he was pursuing to get away. There were also no leads on her so far, adding to his irritation. What would have been the breaking point for any ordinary person was a woman (blonde hair, blue eyes, young, pretty, dumb as a brick) accidentally dumping incredibly hot coffee on him as he got out of the taxi in front of St. Barts.
He knew it was a bad idea to still go to the morgue, but he needed to examine the body again—and not even the prospect of—completely accidentally—not really—sort of—it's complicated—making Molly Hooper cry with his foul mood could stop him. Doing his best to remain the calm cool individual everyone expected, even though John (tailing behind dutifully) knew he was seething, Sherlock walked into the morgue but before he could open his mouth, Molly turned and spoke.
"You've been having a bad day." She stated, "I've got you some coffee." She gestured towards the Styrofoam cup on the table, "Sadly I have some bad news, Mr. Harold's body has been removed."
"For what purpose?!"
"B-Burial."
"He was murdered! His body is evidence, you cannot just—"
"It was a suicide. I signed off for it."
"Then you're an idiot."
Oddly enough, Molly wasn't standing down. She gave a small smile, standing up, and pressing the coffee into his hands, "John? I've got a lunch date. Make sure he doesn't tear anything apart."
She brushed past the both of them, and Sherlock turned to watch her go, "She's lying." He murmured.
"What?"
"…nothing."
Sherlock wouldn't tell John of his suspicions, but he wouldn't let it go either. Letting John leave (for some reason he found it necessary to work) he opted to follow Molly. Although it was rather juvenile (John would have told him it was a bit not good) Sherlock really wanted to know what had gotten into his pathologist. He had determined that the night before was simply an extremely bad dream, but he couldn't account for certain parts of it, making the truth of it swing wildly in either direction. Maybe it was best to simply ask.
Molly was surprisingly difficult to follow, and he almost lost her on more than one occasion. But she settled down in a booth at an old looking coffee shop by the window. She spoke to the waitress and moments later had coffee, but there was no sign of anyone. Sherlock decided to be very discreet, and walk in and sit down in the booth behind hers, so that he faced her, but only saw the back of her head. She in turn did not suspect a thing. He ordered a coffee, and waited.
A man walked through the door settling in front of Molly. He had a nervous twitch to him, was an alcoholic, former drug addict, and he was showing signs of going bald. Sherlock was the first to say that Molly's choice in men wasn't great but this man was an abomination. Upon further inspection, he found that it was the suspect he had been pursuing. Before he could intervene however, Molly spoke, initiating a fascinating conversation.
"Hello, Raul, it's been six months since our last meeting and it says here that you declared that you wouldn't come back to me for anything. What has changed?"
"B-before we go any further, I ask you this one question."
"I might answer, I might not."
"Are you the devil? Do you make deals with him? Are you some sort of demonic creature?"
"That's three questions. Now have you decided what you will do?"
"Well are you?"
"What I am is entirely irrelevant to what you want, Raul."
"…I…I killed one, just like you said—and then I get a call about my Da. I hadn't seen him in years, but he left me money—enough to cover the debts. This is—this is your doing isn't it?"
Sherlock's blood ran cold. What was he saying? This was ridiculous, what was this man talking about? How could she coerce a man into killing someone? Why? What did this have to do with an inheritance?
"It's the deal."
"…did he ever do anything, you know…wrong?"
"As far as I know Thomas Harold age forty-six was an upstanding citizen."
"Oh…why did he have to die?"
"Because it was the deal."
"Why did you give me such a horrible deal?"
"Remember, Raul, you could have walked away. You were the one to pull the trigger. You were the one that wanted something."
"I—you—"
"Are we finished? Or would you like to make another deal?"
The now sickly pale man stood up and left the coffee house. Sherlock decided it was time to confront her. He settled down in front of Molly, finding it odd how the different lighting could make her seem more sinister, and much less vulnerable. Her eyes widened upon seeing him, but her smile remained.
"Hello, Sherlock. Have you come to make a deal?"
"What is this?"
"My business." She gestured towards the paper, "This is my real job."
"You work at a morgue."
"Yes, yes I do."
"You convinced a man to kill another."
"No. He convinced himself to."
"That dream…it was real."
"Very good, Sherlock."
"So you're a—" The word wouldn't come out correctly no matter how he focused on it.
"Witch? Yeah." Molly's smile widened as she began writing something down on a piece of paper and folding it, "I chose not to clear your memory this time. Everyone who sits in this seat is technically clear for knowing we exist. So Sherlock, what do you want most in the world?"
For you to be normal, "I don't want anything, especially not if murder is the cost."
"Not always. Sometimes you have to help little old ladies across the street, or find someone who is missing. It depends on the desire, as nothing is free." Molly sighed, "Welcome to the real world, Sherlock Holmes."
"Moriarty."
"What?"
"Moriarty you helped him, why?"
"He made a deal. I told him I would give him what he wanted if he fulfilled the price. All magic has a price. He couldn't pay it, therefore he failed."
"What deal? What price?"
"He wanted a perpetual game that would never bore him. In exchange he would have to convince you to kill yourself." Molly put her hand on his, "Don't worry, I wasn't too happy about the deal, and I knew you were too smart for it."
Sherlock recoiled, "You almost got me killed."
"No. He almost got you killed. All I do is offer the choice. Fulfill your end, I get my end."
"What end do you get?"
"Details. Also it keeps the world around me at an equilibrium otherwise I cause too much trouble. Being an abomination, even among witches is tricky business. If I stopped making six or seven deals a year, then the balance is off. Nine is the best."
"What happens without balance?"
"War. Hurricanes. Poverty. People dying that shouldn't have. Once people rose from the dead. That wasn't fun. Isolated incidence in the seventies—nineteen seventies that is. There are a lot of seventies when you think about it." Molly was babbling again, and Sherlock realized that she was still a babbling bumbling cheerful person.
"But still you made a deal with Moriarty. When was this?!"
"Uhh before you knew who he was."
"What." It his voice was flat, and didn't sound like a question, "So you knew, and didn't bother to tell me? He killed people, he made me worry about y—people and you knew this entire time?"
Molly shrugged, "People die."
"How can you say that?"
"Look who's gotten sentimental! Good for you, I'm proud. You see you and I are different. I've lived several centuries, and you'll be considered lucky if you reach one. There's only so much caring about people who die like mayflies you can do before you go insane. Oh!" The waitress came, placing a large plate with a piece of chocolate covered cheesecake, "This place has the best desserts, while you're here, Sherlock, you should definitely try the strudel."
What are you?
"I already told you, I'm a witch. I didn't clear your memory because I thought this would be interesting. Please don't disappoint me, Sherlock; I'm ever so bored and ever so tired. This will be so much fun!" Molly's nervous giggle turned into a full blown cackle, and Sherlock was surprised no one in the café reacted to it. The waitress came and cleared her empty plate, and the cackling continued. It was only then that Sherlock realized that his question was never spoken out loud.
