So this is a bit rushed and rough around the edges but I got excited and decided to post it anyway. Thank you all for your support! It means a lot!
Present—Molly
The bartender grinned at Molly, when she came in, "Twins! Okay, let me guess, you're the wild one." He pointed at Molly, "and you're the smart one."
Both Cosima and Molly grinned at that, Molly running a hand through her admittedly messy hair in response to him. Even when not playacting as Beth, she did her best not to look like Molly, instead opting for an edgier grunge look that bordered on what Mrs. S. would have referred to as "slutty." Molly didn't mind though. It provided a tiny bit of security—most of which was perceived of course, but it was security all the same. It was what allowed her to sleep a little bit every night.
"Would it surprise you if we were genetically identical?" Molly asked him, cocking her head to the side and grinning.
"Not one bit—" The man's eyes were roving over her breasts and then flitting over to Cosima. No doubt, the scenario could provide the man with a fantasy or two.
"Whiskey on the rocks, please." She turned quickly to Cosima, and lowered her voice as the bartender went to fix the drink, "Here's your briefcase." Molly shoved it over to her, "Blood samples, documents of birth—death dates for a lot of them—this is insanely huge. I seriously don't know if I want to be part of it."
"You're part of it whether or not you want to be. You could leave tomorrow and it will still be your problem." Moly knew that. She was overtly aware of that, but seeming too eager might raise suspicions, "We need a cop. It can be your problem and you're doing something about this shit. It provides many advantages." Cosima shrugged, lightheartedly swirling the wine in her glass, "Please?"
Molly shrugged, "Sadly this is far too interesting for me to resist. There's a bit of a problem though. I have no idea how to shoot a gun."
"None?"
"I'm English. I can fire a hunting rifle but that's about—"
"Alison can teach you."
"Huh? Why not you?"
"Dude, peace and love. Do I look like the sort that would know how?"
Molly rolled her eyes, "Anyway, here's the suitcase, be careful with these blood samples, I'm pretty sure a fair number of those subjects are dead now."
"I'm a geneticist. An evolutionary biologist. I think I know how to handle cell samples."
"I know. But we really only get a few goes at seeing." Molly was mostly worried about genetic illnesses or especially side effects of being made from cloned tissue but she decided not to express said worry too quickly. There was still so much she didn't know and she wanted to keep her cluelessness in check.
Present—Sherlock
"We can't just go to Toronto Canada, Sherlock!" John practically shouted, gesturing wildly at the man and to his brother, who remained ever the calm and stoic character.
"I don't see a reason why we can't." Sherlock frowned like a scolded child, crossing his arms.
"If Molly was alive, she would have contacted us by now. You're being—"
"Being what?" Sherlock cut Mycroft off.
"Sentimental."
"I'm not being sentimental—I knew—I knew that wasn't Molly and I didn't do anything about it. That was sentiment, Watson—that was—that was stupidly human and goldfishlike and it is not a mistake I will make again. I'm going to Toronto."
"But why would she not contact you, Sherlock?" Mycroft asked and for that, Sherlock had no answer.
If Molly was alive and in Toronto, why didn't she reach out to him for help?
Present—Molly
Molly squared herself up and did exactly as Alison said, firing and knocking the can right off the ledge.
"So." She asked after she finished firing, "Do you actually think they're killing us off?"
"What else could it be? We're lab rats in someone's experiment and now they're killing us to over their tracks."
"That doesn't seem like an adequate motivation though." Molly murmured, cursing Sherlock for not allowing her to think as simply as Alison could. It would probably save them all in the end.
"I don't care. All I know is that I have to defend my children."
"I get that." Molly nodded, feeling a swell of pride overcome her at how Kira turned out. It wasn't the sort of "pat on the back, you didn't fuck up" pride, but the pride she felt that despite majorly screwing everything up, Kira turned out fine all the same. "So." She reloaded and shot, "I suppose it's time to be badass then."
Present—Mycroft
His silly younger brother didn't seem to realize what someone as insignificant as Molly Hooper did: If he went to find her, Moriarty would find her as well. That oversight aside, he had practically everyone beneath him scouring the UK for any trace of the criminal without any avail. If it weren't for the fact that Sherlock caught him on tape the time James Moriarty decided to have tea at his flat, Mycroft would argue that there was no way that he couldn't have done it.
Of course Molly Hooper was alive.
He only missed it because he filed her in the wrong place but upon further examination, it was obvious that her death had been faked and the body that had been cremated was not her. If it had been anyone else, Mycroft would have been more thorough in his examination but he couldn't stoop to research every suicide in the world. Really, he only should have noticed all the details because she was one of Sherlock's goldfish.
Although, it seemed that she could be likened more to that dog he adored.
Present—Molly
Art seemed satisfied with her performance at the range. Molly hated the sense of helplessness she had to have before she would ever be forced to pick up a gun. That moment was there. It enveloped her with a sense of panic that she had to quash every day when she rolled over and realized that the man in her bed was a stranger and that she was playing the part of Beth Childs. Every day, the act became more and more flawless and Molly wondered where the sweet woman who got coffee for her crush at the morgue went and if she would ever be able to come back.
"We're going out." Art's voice sounded far away, "There's been a report."
The report led her to an abandoned hideout that was decorated with the same redheaded dolls and strange drawings that the hotel room Katja's briefcase was in. She looked around for a moment before she heard the gunshot. It hit the wall beside Art's head and suddenly he was gripping his ear, yelling at Molly—no not Molly—Beth to chase after the person who just shot at them.
Molly glanced around and sighed heavily before pursuing the hooded figure as they disappeared into a construction site. She paused, catching her breath and looked around the abandoned shithole with a level of apprehension.
"What the hell?" Molly was suddenly tackled from the side, slung painfully across the gravel that was all too common on a construction sight.
Her attacker pulled her hood down and much to Molly's surprise, the homicidal maniac that was currently straddling her was a mirror image. A genetic identical, a clone.
"Goodbye, Elizabeth Childs." She said in heavily accented broken English.
"I'm not Beth!" Molly screamed, "I'm not Beth—" She felt around for something, anything, "I'm not Beth!"
"Not Beth?" The killer seemed to hesitate with her knife.
"NO!" Molly found a length of rebar and impaled her with it, pushing her off of her and running as fast as she could.
At some point she slammed into Art, gasping for breath. "Holy shit." Molly gasped for breath, trying to calm her almost completely fried nerves, her hands trembling from the adrenaline. "Holy, holy, shit."
She wandered through the questioning in a dreamlike state until Art mentioned that she should call Paul to take her home. As if Paul were really her caring boyfriend, Molly dialed his number and pressed the phone up against her ear before she remembered that he wasn't. Before she could hang up, however, she heard the gruff, "Hello? Beth?"
"Hi—yeah," Molly gave a short giggle before continuing, "I've well—I need a ride home. Dipshit's orders. I'm at the station now."
"What happened?"
"Oh…it was just a report, went a bit off script, that's all."
"Are you all right?"
"Yeah—yes! Art's just being that way."
"I'll be right there."
"Yeah see you soon."
"Bye."
It seemed that Paul and Beth had issues long before Beth flung herself in front of a London train. Molly could only hope that the estrangement they had would simply make her behavior seem normal. Paul pulled up and Molly climbed into his SUV without a word, curling up against herself to watch the other cars as they passed. Paul didn't say anything at first. Then, abruptly, he spoke.
"We could go to Rio…remember planning that?"
Molly shrugged, and nothing more was said.