(9/20/2013) I TRIED TO WRITE THIS CHAPTER BUT THE SITE WENT DOWN AND HALF GOT DELETED. I HAD TO START OVER AND IT REALLY SET ME BACK. I don't know if I can write anymore if this keeps happening. It put me in the worst mood I've been in in a long time. I hate to complain about something so small but I feel really depressed and annoyed now. It's always the little things that get to me...

I wrote it again but it's not as detailed and probably not as good as the original. Sure, second draft's are usually better than first but I had to restart from scratch in a bad mood so...yeah. lol.

Sorry it's been so long, too. Excuses to follow:

I got a boyfriend and a job (in that order), meaning that I have a "life" now and so less time to write lol. But I'm sick so wrote a little today (9/17/2013) and (9/18/2013).

OK! Enough rambling.

The basic point is that this will be a rarely updated story until winter break when I will have more time (or I fall ill again). Sorry about that and if you lose/lost interest I understand. I'm not going to be as review-demandy as I was before since the update schedule is non-existent and "real life" seems to be fulfilling my self-esteem issues better now. lol.

Anyway, happy reading!

:)

(8:28 AM March 28, 2010.)

Standing there for seven minutes Molly watched Toby's torso bob up and down ever-so-slightly with his breath (unnoticeable to anyone not paying attention with the same vigilance as a mother making sure her child is still breathing) and Toby's body bob up and down ever-so-slightly with the breath of the human he was sleeping on top of, Richard Brook, whose torso was also bobbing up and down ever-so-slightly.

Other than that (and Molly's breathing) the room was still.

During that seven minutes, Rich's mind slowly roused itself from sleep (noticing the stripes of sunlight sneaking in through the curtained windows, and the slow creaking of Molly unlocking and opening her front door) and brought him into consciousness. He moved, sitting up and causing Toby to wake up as well and leap off on him onto the hardwood floor.

He trotted across it until he found a sliver of sun under a window to spread himself out inside and return to sleep.

The curtains were gray and thick, but were old and so Rich, as he was opening his eyes, decided that they once were white. Everything in this room—everything in this house in fact—was old. Not dusty, not falling apart, but just old. All the furnishings were well-cared-for antiques that had probably not moved from their places in decades. Like she had inherited the house, Molly Hooper had inherited everything inside it.

Molly flipped on the floorlamp by the door and closed the door behind her.

"I see you've met Toby." she began, nodding first at the cat asleep under the sun and then at Rich.

The room was brighter now with the artificial light.

"So that's his name?" Rich affirmed, standing and give his nighttime companion a quick glance before looking at Molly, "He's cute. I told you I love animals and animals love me. I wanted to feed him last night but I couldn't find any catfood..."

"Toby feeds himself." Molly explained, evenly, "He 'loves' you because you smell like food to him."

"You're kidding." Rich smiled skeptically, folding his arms.

Molly's face was unreadable. Somewhere between a tired but goodnatured smile and an exasperated rolling of the eyes.

Rich didn't pry into the matter any further.

"You didn't have any human food in the house, either." he said instead.

"I don't eat very much." Molly stated matter-of-factly, "Sherlock believes that digestion slows the mental process."

"Oh really?" Rich sneered, "You sure you're not just trying to stay skinny for him? Because I can tell you that straight men like a woman with some meat on her bones. But then again, I don't know about your boy..."

"You've call Sherlock gay enough times that I'm starting to think you're just compensating for insecurities about your own sexuality." Molly retorted.

"You forget that I'm a performer. I did theater before I did TV and even before that I went to an all boy's Catholic school." Rich scoffed, "I've never been 'insecure' about sexuality but for most of my life it's been more convenient for me to play gay than straight. So I can do it for you too, if you want. I'm not embarrassed, I've done it before. And isn't that what your friend Meena said? That a single woman your age needs 'a cat or a gay best friend'? You already have Toby and since Sherlock won't be your 'gay best friend', I will and now you'll have both."

"That was an either-or statement." Molly corrected, "And just because you've had to pretend you're gay instead of straight doesn't mean that you're not insecure. It just means that you're accusing Sherlock of hiding something when you've hidden something similar in the past."

At those words Rich was temporarily speechless. He realized he had most likely revealed to much about himself while being too defensive, all for some stupid running joke he had only started making to annoy Molly (and not because he cared or even knew what Sherlock Holmes' sexual orientation was). Before his face turned red with minor embarrassment, Rich took a breath.

"I'm hungry." he said, "Let's go get some breakfast."

"It's dinner time for me." Molly informed.

"Okay, then." Rich accepted, "Let's have dinner."

(9:00 AM Feburary 2nd, 2010.)

Molly took cabs because Sherlock took cabs. She could afford it, like he could. Not with the money she made, but with the money she got from a benefactor. The same benefactor, in fact, that Sherlock (and John Watson, as well) refused to take money from. It was a nice arrangement. She had found the money in her account when checking its status online.

She hadn't even given the mysterious government man any information yet. It must have been 'good faith' to prove he was actually going to pay her for spying on Sherlock (rather than say, killing her or something else less desirable than money). But this 'good faith' also meant Molly had to work on getting some good information for her new benefactor. Soon. Or the 'good faith' would disappear.

...but not so soon that the mysterious government man would realize that 'naive' Molly Hooper actually knew the rules to this kind of game and was good at it too.

So Molly still had some time to come up with and deliver her findings.

And in that meantime, Molly had taken a cab to Baker Street because Sherlock took cabs to Baker Street.

Sherlock Holmes and John Watson were not home (out on a case) but Sherlock Holmes and John Watson were not who Molly Hooper had come here to see.

Molly exited the taxi the same time as Mrs. Hudson exited the cafe, Speedy', next door to 221 a, b and c. They both made their ways from opposite directions towards 221 a, b and c and met at the front door.

"Excuse me, ma'am?" Molly tapped on the older woman's shoulder.

"Yes?" Mrs. Hudson asked, turning around to face her.

"Are you the owner of these flats?" Molly asked.

"I am." Mrs. Hudson nodded, "I'm Mrs. Hudson. What can I do for you?"

"I was wondering if any of the flats here were still available for rent? You had an advertisement in the paper a while back."

"Well, the one I advertised has already been rented out...but I have another downstairs if you'd like to take a look."

"Yes, please."

Molly smiled and Mrs. Hudson smiled, unlocked her door and led her in.

Molly waited in the hall of 221a, right in front of the stairs to 221b, while Mrs. Hudson popped into the kitchen to get the set of keys for the basement door.

Molly so wanted to walk up those stairs and see the rooms where Sherlock lived, how and where he kept his things, what things he had. She imagined his flat would be messy but deliberate, organized chaos, that told the stories of the cases and experiments he was working on in the order of when he worked on them. The clues to solve Sherlock's genius mind would be in that mess, just like the clues to solve a case were in the mess of a crime scene.

(But Molly didn't even consider the influences of John and Mrs. Hudson who were forced to clean up after Sherlock daily.)

Molly blinked and glanced away from the staircase, turning towards Mrs. Hudson as she re-entered the hall with the set of keys.

The basement was dark, even with the lights turned on, and had the usual dust and dampness of disuse. It was almost empty, but some stray (and dusty) furniture remained.

"How long has it been since anyone lived down here?" Molly asked.

"Oh, years..." Mrs. Hudson sighed, trailing off as if there was more to the story of why it had been so long, "Sorry that I haven't tidied up down here in a while. But if you decide to rent, I'll clean it out before you move in."

"It has mold." Molly commented, pointing at the dark corners.

She and Mrs. Hudson were both taking shallow breaths from their mouths due to the smell. (But neither of them held their noses, of course, since Molly didn't want to be rude and Mrs. Hudson didn't want to acknowledge the smell.)

"I'll have it cleaned, don't you worry dear." Mrs. Hudson reassured, "And I'll give you a discount. A better price than anything else you'll find in this area, it's gotten quite expensive here lately. But it's a nice, safe area for a single woman like yourself."

"How do you know I'm single?" Molly questioned, raising an eyebrow.

Mrs. Hudson blinked, looked Molly up and down (for the second time that morning, the first was five minutes ago outside when she had decided she was single).

"Sorry, you're not wearing a ring but I shouldn't have assumed." she apologized, then adding "Women these days focus on their careers for much longer now than when I was young and I think that's a good thing. And as a matter of fact let me give you some advice. Never get married. Ever. Even if you've been with the man so long that you think you know him, never marry him. Because the truth is you never really know someone. Even someone you've known your whole life, almost. Even yourself."

"That's very...cynical." Molly commented, considering Mrs. Hudson's words of advice.

"I learned it the hard way." Mrs. Hudson recounted, "I lived in blissful ignorance with my husband for over thirty years until I found out who he truly was."

"Who was he?" Molly inquired, now interested.

"A serial killer of all things!" Mrs. Hudson exclaimed, with a sad laugh, "He'd murdered his wife and a string of other women in America and escaped here to London, changed his named and married me. I might've been his next victim myself, if it wasn't for my tenant, Sherlock Holmes, who figured it all out. He's a detective, you might have heard of him."

"The name sounds a little familiar..." Molly confirmed.

"He was just a university student at the time but he gathered enough evidence for my husband to be extricated back to the US and executed, too, since they've still got the death penalty there." Mrs. Hudson continued, "Sherlock saved my life when he found all of my husband's trophies,down here in my husband's workshop...and I probably shouldn't have told you about that, since I'm trying to rent you this the rooms he used."

"Well, actually it's the mold that bothers me, not the story which was actually interesting to hear." Molly said, "But I'm sorry about your husband. And that I'm not going to rent the flat..." She started towards the doorway and the stairway to upstairs.

"Really?" Mrs. Hudson checked, waiting a moment before following her, "You sure I can't persuade you? I told you I'll have it cleaned..."

"Sorry, but no." Molly apologized, on their way up the stairs, "Good luck finding a tenant, though."

"I doubt I ever will." Mrs. Hudson sighed defeatedly, when they reached the top, "Even when I don't tell prospectives the story, they're still scared away. But usually it's Sherlock making some kind of racket, shoot or exploding things, upstairs not the mold. I thought I'd be able to sell it with him out for the day or who knows how long...oh well."

The women crossed the hallway and Mrs. Hudson held the door open for Molly, allowing her to exit 221 back onto Baker Street.

About to hail another taxicab, Molly happened to look across the street and see that there was a storefront for sale(store gone out of business due to competition from Speedy's).

She let her raised arm fall and crossed the street.

A half an hour later, Molly had paid the rent for five months in cash (she carried around large amounts because she didn't like banks and nobody would expect her to be carrying so much anyway) in exchange for not giving her name.

When the owner asked why she was being so "secretive", she answered that "Queen and Country" needed the building for "surveillance" (which was sort of true). The money assured their patriotism.

(9:15 AM March 28, 2010.)

"So were going to Sherlock's for breakfast, are we?" Rich asked, wryly, when the cab he and Molly were in pulled up to the curb very close to (but across the street from) 221b Baker Street.

He laughed, because he was joking and saw the cafe next door. Molly rolled her eyes and paid the cab driver.

They got out the vehicle and stood in front of the (still) empty storefront Rich didn't know Molly owned.

Rich was still wearing his 'Jim from IT' outfit, his white buttondown washed a day and half earlier but also worn a day and a half earlier as he had slept in it while Molly was at work for the previous eight hours as well as the amount of time he was awake and stuck in her old house. Although he had showered while she was gone, he badly needed and wanted a changed of clothes. His khakis hadn't even been cleaned at all!

So, feeling dirty (in the less desirable sort of way) and self-conscious being in public like this, Rich glanced around once out in the open of Baker Street, making sure none of the passersby (right now, only an old woman on the other side of the road) could magically tell that he had worn his clothes three days in a row.

Molly was out of her white labcoat from work but still in the same outfit she had worn last night (different from and cleaner than, thankfully, the one she had worn the night she met Rich) to work (black slacks and a green longsleeved shirt). Hanging from her shoulder was her green totebag. She gazed across the street at 221 and the same old woman Rich had glanced at exiting its front door.

"Do you see that lady over there?" Molly checked, to which Rich nodded, "That's Mrs. Hudson. She's Sherlock's landlady. Her husband was a serial killer in America. Sherlock solved the case and got him extradited to Florida where he was executed."

"More Sherlock-obsessed trivia—" he attempted, but was quickly interrupted by:

"I need you to distract her." Molly ordered, "I'm going to break into her house."

"What are you going to take?" Rich questioned, taken aback and turning towards her, "Sherlock's undies?"

"I'm not taking anything." Molly declared, matter-of-factly, still staring across the street at 221, "I'm going to leave something behind."

"A love note?" Rich snarked.

"Something like that..." Molly affirmed, ambiguously

"How long do you need?" Rich asked, seriously and getting down to business.

"Ten minutes, at most." Molly answered.

"Okay." Rich agreed, "Easy."

(9:20 AM March 28, 2010.)

Speedy's crowded this morning, with most of its tables full of older, probably retired, customers nursing coffee and most of the standing room full of younger working adults late to work or on an early lunchbreak. Steam was rising from the big grill and the sounds of speech, cooking and the cash register filled the small cafe.

Standing in line at the counter of Speedy's, waiting to order with two other customers in front of her, was where Rich found Mrs. Hudson. He stood behind her and tapped her on the shoulder.

"May I have a word with you, Mrs. Hudson?" he asked...in his best American accent (it sounded southern but more Texan, like the old Wild West movies from the 1960's (which were what he was imitating)).

Mrs. Hudson, startled, jumped slightly and turned around. "About what?" she questioned, suspiciously (especially because the accent reminded her of her dead husband's), "Who are you?"

"The topic is a might sensitive, ma'am." Rich overdid the Texan, "So how's about we sit ourselves down over at yonder table and have us a nice chat."

"I'm not going anywhere with you until you tell me who you are!" Mrs. Hudson declared, "How do you know my name?!"

"I'm a reporter, ma'am, branching out into book-writing." Rich stated, "I'm writing a book about Southern Serial killers and your husband's name came up in my research. I flew all the way here from the good old US of A to interview you about him."

"I have nothing to say about my husband." Mrs. Hudson refused, "He's dead and gone and that's that. Good riddance to him. And I've never trusted Americans since him."

"You don't have to trust me, ma'am." Rich allowed, "You just have to tell me your story."

(9:25 AM March 28, 2010.)

Five minutes later, after insisting he pay for Mrs. Hudson's breakfast (and coffee for himself), Rich was seated across from Mrs. Hudson at a corner table of the small cafe.

"Well, my husband…he didn't seem like a serial killer." she recounted, "It took me so long to figure out he wasn't who he said he was, who he pretended to be. He was a very good actor, surprisingly. You don't think of killers and criminals having manners, being polite and friendly, but he was. Very spirited, too, a lot of energy and charisma. He could cook, better than I can and he could whittle, too. Make little figurines of animals out of wood with his favorite knife. The same knife he used when he...well, you know. He didn't have much money, only ever worked blue-collar jobs but he was impressive because he spoke well, in an accent a lot like yours, actually and he always knew what he was talking about. He was very smart, you see, he could have been somebody important if he wasn't, you know, a coldblooded killer… But he wasn't all nice, of course. Nobody is. And aside from the killing, which I didn't know about til after he was arrested, he also had a temper. Once we were married I saw the darker side of him, he was happy one moment and angry the next, that's when I realized his manners were all an act. He was very rude, violent even, behind closed doors. Always shouting, throwing things. He scared me, sometimes. But other times he was really...sweet."

"How'd you find out the truth about him?" Rich asked, sipping his coffee from the mug in one hand.

"He kept a suitcase of things I was never supposed to open," Mrs. Hudson answered, "But one day while he was out I opened it and looked inside."

"What was in there?" Rich followed-up, now actually interested.

"Hair." Mrs. Hudson stated, looking down as she cut sausage on the plate in front of her with her knife, "Enough to make several wigs. I didn't know what to make of it, at first. So I called my tenant, Sherlock Holmes. He was just a university student at the time, but he'd always been interested in science and crime and that sort of thing. And so when I showed him the hair in the suitcase he instantly figured out it was hair from the victims of the 'Wigmaker'. Dead women of different ages and backgrounds all found dead in Florida during the 1970's with only two things in common. Their throats were slit and their hair was cut. I never would've guessed, just from a suitcase full of hair, but Sherlock...he knew. He always knows. My husband may have been smart enough to get away with the murders and escape for over twenty years, but Sherlock is a genius. In fact, he's a real detective now consulting for Scotland Yard."

"Interesting." Rich nodded (although tuning out the sentences about Sherlock (whom he was very tired of hearing about)), "So do you still have the suitcase full of hair?"

"Heaven's no!" Mrs. Hudson shook her head, "Sherlock took it. He sent it, along with the location of my husband, to the FBI and within two days Scotland Yard had burst through my front door and dragged my husband away. A day later, they had sent him back to Florida for trial and I never saw him again. He wrote letters but I never answered them. I never even opened them. I did get the news, though, some years later that he was finally executed and didn't shed a tear."

"So what year was Mr. Hudson executed, again, ma'am?" Rich checked.

"Mr. Hudson?" Mrs. Hudson repeated, taken aback. She set her fork and knife back down on her plate and looked straight up across the table at Rich.

"Your husband, ma'am." Rich clarified, still using the Texas accent.

"My husband's name wasn't 'Mr. Hudson'." Mrs. Hudson exclaimed, "I returned to my maiden name once I found out what he had done. If you're researching my husband you should know his name!"

"Sorry." Rich apologized, quickly and embarassedly, "My mistake, ma'am."

"And you haven't written a word of what I've said down." Mrs. Hudson added, "How're you going to use what I've said for your book without doing that?!"

"I have a good memory...?" Rich attempted, sheepishly.

"If that were the case then you would remember my husband's real name." Mrs. Hudson declared, folding her arms angrily, "So who are you really?! Some sort of scam artist?! Stay away from me or I'll call the police!"

"Okay, okay!" Rich cried, Texan accent slipping, "I'm leaving!" He jumped up and sprinted out of the cafe, all of its occupants staring at him on his speedy way out.

Mrs. Hudson just watched him go, a stern look on her face and her arms still folded.

"Americans..." she grumbled, once he was gone.

(9:20 AM March 28, 2010.)

Because she was only "grabbing a quick nibble" at the next door cafe, Mrs. Hudson had left her front door unlocked. Through the unlocked front door, Molly slipped into 221 Baker Street.

Inside, she followed the path she had seen Mrs. Hudson take a month earlier to the kitchen where she found the keys to the basement flat, 221c. Back in the hall, she used them to open the barred door.

Down in the dusty and moldy basement, unlived-in since a killer had whittled lifeless wooden animals in his workshop, Molly opened her totebag. She pulled out an old pair of shoes and set them down on the floor.

(9:30 AM March 28, 2010.)

Still sprinting once outside on the sidewalk and away from Speedy's Cafe, Rich bumped into the walking Molly, exiting 221 Baker Street.

"Excuse me." she said, and then stepped around him and walked away as if she didn't know him continued down the pavement until she reached the stalled taxicab(the driver of which she h ad told to come back in fifteen minutes after dropping them off) at the curb and got inside.

Rich was left just standing there, staring and blinking confusedly, and wondering what to do next. He got his answer when the taxi circled around the block and stopped to let him in.

In the back of the cab, Rich sat next to Molly. "So how did it go?" he asked her.

"Don't ask me that in here." Molly refused to answer.

"Why not?" Rich dismissed, "The driver doesn't care. He probably isn't even paying attention." He chuckled, glancing past the miniature TV screens and transparent divider at the back of the driver's head.

"We both know that's not true." Molly countered, "We met because of a cab driver."

"Well, that's different." Rich disagreed, "He was different."

"But he didn't look it, did he?" Molly reminded, "How many other people do you see everyday that look like nothing to you? Any one of them could be 'different', too. All of them could."

"It wouldn't be 'different', then, anymore." Rich literalized, cheekily, "If everyone was."

"Exactly." Molly agreed, with a nod.

"So you mean to tell me you go around worrying that everyone's could be secret genius," Rich snickered, "Just a hair away from figuring you out?"

"Yes." Molly affirmed, "Everybody is a potential threat. Being careful is what keeps me safe."

"Well, if everyone's a secret genius like you are, then why focus on Sherlock?" Rich inquired.

"Because with him, it isn't a 'secret'." Molly specified, "He flaunts it and so I have confirmation. That's what makes him interesting."

"So what about me?" Rich asked, "Am I a secret genius too?"

"No." Molly stated, matter-of-factly, "I've met you."

Rich folded his arms, rolling eyes and then looking out the window next to him. He could see his and Molly's reflection, as well as the the buildings and vehicles and people all passing by (slowly, due to the London traffic).

"I'm hungry." he said, after a few silent minutes.

"You didn't eat at Speedy's?" Molly replied.

"No." Rich responded, looking back over at her, "I didn't get the chance.

"Why not?" Molly questioned, raising her eyebrow.

"Well, let's just say I had to make a 'speedy' exit." Rich punned.

On Molly's face remained a blank, vaguely annoyed and suspicious, look complete with raised eyebrow. She didn't appreciate the joke.

Rich smiled unenthusiastically.

Molly sighed.

"We're going to the hospital." she told him, "Because I work there, I can eat at the canteen for free. And so can you if I bring you in."

"Good." Rich grinned, happy because he had no cash left in his to buy food for himself after purchasing Mrs. Hudson's breakfast (and himself coffee which he hadn't even gotten to finish).

(9:52 AM March 28, 2010.)

Saint Bartholomew's Hospital canteen's breakfast hours were just finishing up and so Rich piled the last bit of lukewarm fare from the morning meal onto his tray, along with some continental items and a new cup of coffee. Doctors and nurses in uniforms, and a few visitors had all been all throwing away their trash and leaving the wide room just as Molly and Rich were arriving, and so the two were alone in the room aside for a janitor wiping down the tables a few stray others at various tables chatting after their meals.

"So what happened with Mrs. Hudson?" Molly asked. She had a sytrofoam cup of coffee in one hand and a fork picking at the one food on her plate, eggs (which she was eating because protein was good for the brain and the metabolism).

"I told her I was reporter from Texas, did the accent and everything, and that I was writing a book about her late husband." Rich recounted, "I didn't know his name wasn't Hudson..."

"If you can't even fool Mrs. Hudson, how can I trust you to fool Sherlock?" Molly questioned.

"I was working with limited information." Rich excused, "But you've told me all about Sherlock so I'll be able to fool him easier."

"You still have to prove that to me." Molly warned, "If you fail...well, you can guess what will happen to you, then."

Rich gulped but smirked.

"Should I be scared?" He tried to laugh off, nervously, then adding, "Besides, you should thank me. I gave you enough time to do your breaking and entering thing, didn't I?"

"I didn't break in." Molly corrected, "The door was unlocked and I used her keys to get into the basement."

"And what did you take—I mean leave behind?" Rich asked.

"Oh, just a pair of old shoes." Molly shrugged, off-handedly.

"Shoes?" Rich repeated, surprised, "If they're yours then that's a bit of a giveaway, don't you think?"

"They're not mine." Molly smiled.

"Whose, then?" Rich asked, now actually interested.

And so Molly said, "A boy named Car Powers..."

And so there you have it! I hope you still like it!

Next chapter will be an explanation of how Molly knew Carl. Hopefully it will be written soon. If all the TV shows I watch seasons' end then there is a better chance of that.

Please review!