Tom held her so close that she felt the breath seeping out of her. She couldn't manoeuvre her legs forward and he had pinned her arms to his chest. He bent his head casually for a kiss, as though he was greeting her after popping to the offie for a couple of beers and they were planning to curl up on the sofa with a movie. Her flannel pyjamas and bare feet made her feel vulnerable next to him. He towered over her, just like Sherlock did, although Sherlock would never, ever hurt her. She felt like Tom might crush her like a bug right now.
Molly had spent enough time around Sherlock and John and Greg and Mycroft and best of all Mary to know that she could not let that hotel door close with them inside the room. Tom had pulled her just over the threshold, onto the landing. The next rooms were half a flight up or half a flight down, but anything was better than inside that room, alone, with the stalker ex-fiance that Sherlock suspected of conspiring with a murderous cult.
"Tom!" Molly tried for a surprised smile, and suspected she had failed. She edged her right foot backwards, hunting for the door. "I can't believe you're here either. You look…" crazed, angry, jealous, hateful, frightening, intimidating… "great."
Her foot gained purchase on the door and she flicked it forward. The door shut with a thud behind her. Tom jerked his head up, then slowly lowered his gaze to her, his expression unreadable.
"Oh no!" Molly smiled ruefully, patting his chest with her trapped hands. "The door's blown shut and the key's inside. It's going to be a bit embarrassing at reception in my jammies." She giggled. It sounded fake and slightly hysterical even to her ears.
"That's all right," he gave her a forced smile. "We can go to my room. It's at the top of the stairs."
She understood now how Sherlock had seen her in his Mind Palace after Mary shot him, because she saw him now, talking her through her reactions: stall for time, keep him in a public space.
"But I should get another key for my room and get dressed. We shouldn't catch up with me in flannel PJs," Molly attempted lightly. Sherlock in her mind looked Tom up and down. His room key is in his right coat pocket, along with his phone. He's still wet, so he's just come in from the rain, likely just checked in, having followed you from the train station. He may have a weapon, but let's be honest, he won't need one to kill you, will he? He's twice your size.
"I think we'll be better off in my room. I'd like to speak to you privately," he continued, tugging her away from her door. Molly's eyes locked onto his leg. He's wearing Lestrade's ankle tag. They know exactly where he is. They're coming for you. Buy time, inner Sherlock told her.
"What brought you to Bath?" Molly asked.
Tom stared at her, possibly seeing through her attempts to stall him. She knew she was showing all sorts of signs of nervousness – elevated heartrate, sweating slightly, fidgeting – but she didn't credit Tom with enough perceptiveness to spot any of that. He gazed straight into her eyes, looking for answer in them.
"You, Molly," he shrugged. "You brought me here. On the train from Paddington. From Regent's Park. From the front door of that arrogant arse who should have let you die in Crossbones." Molly flinched as he dug his fingers into both her biceps and squeezed. He kept up the pressure, pressing her back against the bannister, while wedging his thigh between her legs. While she could still move her lower arms, Molly fished the room key from his pocket and threw it down the stairwell. It slipped through the gap in the stairs that reached all the way to the basement of the building.
Tom released her arm to grab for the keys, leaning over the bannister as he did so. Molly managed to use his momentum against him, ripping herself from his grasp and diving down the stairs. He faltered for just long enough to give her a half-flight head start towards the lobby, two floors down. But he caught up fast, throwing himself after her so hard that he knocked her off-balance. Molly stumbled and fell, tumbling down three stairs to land hard on the landing of the first floor. She tried to regain her footing, but Tom lunged again, slamming her into the wall so hard that her shoulder dented the plasterboard.
With blood starting to run down her left arm, Molly tried to prise herself away from the wall, but Tom had her pinned. He brought one large hand up to her jaw, tilting her head back in a sick imitation of an intimate gesture. He pressed the heel of his hand against her throat, slowly cutting off her air supply. Struggle, inner Sherlock urged her, bite, kick, anything, because he is going to kill you right here if he can.
Molly lashed out, but Tom only pressed harder. He watched her impassionately; he seemed to consider kissing her. He released the pressure on her neck slightly and she gasped in some air. "Molly, why didn't you just marry me? Why does it have to be like this?"
Molly could hear inner Sherlock screaming back at Tom, Because she's already married to me, you insufferable prick!
…
Sherlock lay exactly where John had left him, stretched out on the leather sofa, his feet in their wet socks hanging over the armrest. For two and a half hours. He lay there with his phone on his chest, waging war with his self-control not to call Molly and check on her. He stared up at the ceiling and told himself to do as she had asked and wait for her. She would come back to him. If he just gave her time and space and a fast-tracked divorce, she would come back to him.
As he contemplated calling Mycroft to sort the divorce, Sherlock heard pounding steps rushing up his staircase. The door banged open so loudly that Sherlock sat upright. Greg was pulling him to his feet and shouting at him.
"Tom's left London. Where's Molly? Sherlock! Where? Is? Molly?"
Sherlock had actual experience of his heart stopping, recent experience, so he could say with some degree of certainty that he his heart did literally stop at Greg's question. "Gone," was all he could manage.
"Gone fucking where?" Greg shook him.
Sherlock shook his head. Anderson ran into the room waving his phone, "She used her debit card to buy a train ticket at Paddington and then booked a hotel room online – I don't know where yet because the bank doesn't have that kind of detail. We're trying to get hold of the online travel agent."
"Where's Tom's tag registering?" Sherlock demanded, suddenly back in the game.
"He's moving west, he's about an hour outside London," answered Donovan, having shoved in the doorway behind Anderson.
"The trains out of Paddington head west out to Bristol. He followed her onto the train," Greg said. He already had Sherlock's coat and shoes in his hands and was hauling the consulting detective off the sofa. "Everyone into the cars! Call the Bristol force and tell them to stand by."
Sherlock felt himself being dragged down the stairs of Baker Street and into Lestrade's car, before heading west, lights and sirens ablaze. He felt certain his heart was still stopped dead.
…
Tom let Molly gasp a few breaths before he angled her head to one side and pressed his mouth over hers for a kiss. Molly tried to concentrate on taking in air through her nose, shallow breaths, as calm as she could manage. Do not panic, keep thinking, keep looking for openings, inner Sherlock whispered to her. When Tom moved his tongue fully into her mouth, Molly bit down with everything she had. Blood filled her mouth as Tom released her and sprang away in shock. She let herself drop to the floor and rolled down the steps, escaping another half-flight before Tom grabbed her again, spitting blood from his mouth and slapping her hard across the face.
She crashed in bannister, hitting her head against the wood. She was still half a flight of stairs and a thick fire door away from the lobby. She heard other residents opening their doors now, but none tried to take on the bleeding, furious man who was attacking her. Molly curled up into a ball on the landing, trying to protect her aching head with her arms.
She must look like a bloodied rag doll, she thought, as Tom yanked her from the floor to her feet again. Inner Sherlock had left off with his calm, advisory tone and now spoke sharply, almost at a shout. Molly, use his strength against him. Let his momentum do all the work. Stay still as a rock. Easy for you to say, Molly wanted to retort, but she didn't even have the strength to argue with a voice in her head, much less take on Tom. So when he threw himself at her headfirst on the edge of the landing, she braced herself against the wall and held still, trying to be the rock as he smashed into her. She heard a sickening crack and felt an overwhelming, aching pain, and tried to focus in on Sherlock's words in her mind: Hang on, Molly, I'm coming.
…
Donovan's car pulled onto the quiet lane of proud, Grade II buildings, her eyes scanning for the B&B that Molly had chosen. It was easy to spot in the end, surrounded by local police cars and two ambulances. The sun had long since set by the time they arrived, and she switched on the flashing blue lights to announce their arrival. Her eyes honed in on the front door of the tall, Georgian terraced house. Greg's car was right on her bumper, but she hoped his car's other occupant couldn't see what she could: paramedics were carrying a stretcher out the double doors of the house, and on the stretcher, she could make out a body bag.
Anderson grabbed her hand reflexively, and he made a choked noise in the back of his throat. Donovan threw the car at a sharp angle, almost causing Greg to plough into the side of her. She hoped that forcing him onto the pavement, with she and Anderson in front, was blocking Sherlock's view. Andersen stumbled out first, intending to hold Sherlock's door closed and spare him the sight. But Sherlock was already standing in the street next to Greg's door, watching the stretcher being carried towards the open doors of one of the ambulances.
All his senses sharp, Sherlock drifted along the pavement towards the house. Every light on the street was illuminated, neighbours pouring out of doors to see what had brought the squad cars to their peaceful street. The lights hurt his eyes, and everyone around him seemed to be shouting. He could feel hands pulling at him, trying to drag him away from the B&B. The air smelled like rain and wet cement. His senses overloaded and he could feel himself shutting down, because that was a body bag. No mistaking it, not anymore, not from the ten metres he now stood from the back of the ambulance parked across the pavement and on the front walk of the little hotel. At least a dozen officers scurried in and out of doors and vehicles, taking statements and bagging evidence and making phone calls.
Sherlock couldn't walk forwards. Something was stopping him. He realised that Donovan and Greg had a hold on him. He paused. Unable to move forward, he simply dropped down, kneeling on the wet pavement. Greg and Donovan knelt beside him. Greg's arm was around his shoulders. No one spoke, or Sherlock didn't hear them. He kept his eyes on the scene in front of him, but he saw little of it as he run full tilt towards Molly's room in his Mind Palace. He threw open the door in a panic, breathless. The bed stood empty. Outside the window of her room, he saw the starless night sky of Bath, streaked with pulsing blue light. Sherlock walked silently to her window. No point in calling for her, she would not answer. He picked up a cricket bat from the corner of the room; somehow most of his childhood belongings had made their way to her enormous space. Methodically, he swang the bat and began smashing everything in the room. The bookshelves, his music stand, his violin, her antique dresser, a globe that her father had given her, his skull… he crashed through every piece of furniture, every memory.
Even in her room, he could hear Greg's voice on repeat, "Sherlock, I'm so sorry." And Donovan's: "We will find out where they're taking her body, Sherlock. We will take care of it all." She was stroking his arm. "We've called John, and he's on his way."
Sherlock honestly did not give a fuck if John came or not. He could not think of a single thing he cared about at all. He didn't want a hit of anything, nor a cigarette, nor anyone's kind words. Nothing anyone could say was going to offer the slightest dim sliver of comfort. He tuned it all out. He could hear Greg shouting and Donovan whispering but he walled himself into the ruins of her room and refused to listen.
Then a sound slipped through the cracks. In her room, he looked up to the bed. She sat on her knees, leaning forward, her eyes big and earnest and intent, trained on his soul. She was wearing a pair of dark blue, flannel pyjamas that he'd never seen before. Her hair fell in bloodied strands around her injured face and he felt a knife of pain twist inside him. She reached out and touched his face. "Sherlock, can you hear me?"
He grabbed the hand and wrapped his fingers over her pulse. He counted, 86, 87, 88 – her blood raced under his fingertips. He blinked. Next to him, Donovan scrambled to her feet and was pressing a pad of gauze to Molly's head. The paramedics and police that Molly had escaped from crowded around her, urging her away from him, starting to lift her gently to her feet.
Sherlock whipped his hand up to Donovan's waist and stole her handcuffs from her belt. He closed one over Molly's left wrist, and the other over his right. No one was going to stop them touching; Sherlock absolutely needed to remain in physical contact with her.
The paramedics and the police, stunned, backed a step off them. She grinned at him and dropped back to the wet concrete and crawled into his lap. He pulled her into his arms and felt an unfamiliar shuddering take over his body; sobbing, he thought with a start. Molly snuggled into him and lay her head against his chest. He tightened his arms around her, one hand in her hair and the other entwined with her own fingers.
"Don't worry, Sherlock, they can't take me away from you now. Donovan's run off to hide the key," she whispered. "I'm not dead, Sherlock. I'm really not. I promise. I did everything that you told me to, I used his strength against him, and his neck snapped."
"The body they carried out – that was Tom?" Sherlock asked. "I should have noticed, the difference in size…"
"You weren't thinking straight. Mycroft was right; sentiment clouds your judgement."
He bit out a laugh and pulled her closer. She winced.
"You're hurt. He hurt you," Sherlock released her just enough to look her over. The hotel staff and the emergency medical team had already cleaned up the worst of the blood, both hers and Tom's.
"Yeah, he did. But you saved me. Well, the you in my head. You told me exactly what to do, kept me calm and rational." Molly looked at him, guilt and fear in her eyes. "The police want to question me. The paramedics are putting them off because of the head injury." She tilted her forehead against his shoulder. "I'm scared."
Sherlock ran his hands gently over her back. "Don't be. Greg and Mycroft will take care of it. Once Mycroft's lawyers descend, the Bath Constabulary will never dare to utter your name again." Sherlock shifted her off of his lap and stood up. He helped her to her feet, but when she faltered, he picked her up.
Molly lay her head against shoulder and sighed. "I'd like to go to the hospital now, Sherlock. I ache all over and my head feels strange. God, but I've really had enough, you know, of being carried away from crime scenes by one Holmes or another."
He laughed, a real laugh now, full of relief and joy. With Molly cradled in his arms, Sherlock made his way over to the ambulance, then helped to arrange her on the gurney. He sat close beside her, no one questioning his presence as they were still handcuffed together. Greg called to Sherlock that he'd meet them at the hospital.
"I just want you to know that you've got one bloody great mess to clean up in my Mind Palace," Sherlock told her, but he felt lit from within as he moved his hand to her wrist again and counted her heartbeats. "And there's no way in hell you're getting that divorce."
…
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