CHAPTER THREE
Sherlock kept walking. The moist, restless wind battered at him as he turned corners and trotted up and down stairs. Grey clouds brooded over the entire city. He didn't have to look out ahead of him to see where he was going—he could walk these streets blind-folded if he had to. And the myriad sounds that swarmed around his head alerted him to passing cabs and cars and pedestrians. He had no need to waste eyesight on that when he needed his eyes to be focused on that phone screen.
That screen. He tapped it every time it started to dim. His text message sat there, staring blankly up at him until the words almost became nonsense. It said "delivered" under the text. That word soon lost all meaning, too.
That is, until it unexpectedly transformed from "delivered" to "Read at 12:28 pm."
He stopped right in the middle of a cross walk. Fixed on that one word:
Read.
All the sounds of London faded to nothing. The world turned to a blur.
Read at 12:28 pm
BEEEEEEEP!
Sherlock jumped and spun around, his ears ringing, his heart crashing against his breastbone.
The light had turned green and he was still standing in the middle of the road. A red Audi's bumper stood just a foot away from his right knee.
Sherlock blinked water out of his eyes, tried to gather himself and leaped onto the walkway, catching his breath. All of a sudden, he felt dizzy. Where was he, exactly? He glanced up and around at the buildings that crowded him, and realized he was quite close to Hyde Park. Raking a hand through his hair, he looked back down at his phone to read Molly's reply.
Except.
She hadn't replied.
There was nothing. Just…
Read at 12:28 pm.
"What is the matter?" he muttered, frowning hard. He checked his mobile's reception. Three bars—good enough. Batteries? Halfway full. It was operating correctly. He should receive her answer instantly, if…
If she did, in fact, answer.
Which…
She hadn't. She wasn't.
Sherlock's frown twisted his brow as the screen clicked to dim, then turned black. He slowly slipped the phone into his pocket, drew himself up, and gazed helplessly across the street at the grand stone entrance to Hyde Park.
And he stood there, gripping his phone in his chilly hand, waiting for it to ding at him…
For twenty minutes.
Finally, when his back began to ache, he took a breath, then another, trying to even out the nervous twitch in his muscles.
A park. Fine. Good. It was quiet there, he could lengthen this strides and walk for miles in a relatively straight line without even the possibility of getting mown down by a vehicle. Free to use much more of his faculties for deduction rather than self-preservation.
Fine. A park. Good.
He hopped across and down the way and slipped between the towering gray pillars, into the relative quiet and coolness of the vast, lushly-green park. His heels tapped rhythmically on the wide paving stones, and the wind gusted around him as he stuck his hands in his pockets, put his head down, and let his mind race on ahead of him like a well-oiled train on an electric track.
There were several potential reasons why Molly was not replying to him. It would take him mere minutes, if he wasn't distracted, to exhaust them all.
She was busy.
Perhaps, but it was very simple to type the word "yes," immediately after receipt of the text.
The microscopes are unavailable.
Equally as easy to type "no."
She had her hands full with an involved autopsy.
But she opened the text—she had her gloves off. Which brought her back to the simplicity of typing "yes" or "no" right away.
She was talking to someone very important.
For half an hour? That had never happened before. Molly didn't have long, involved conversations. At least…not that he knew of.
He blinked three times, rapidly, at that—then moved on to the next.
She read the text and then forgot about it.
Unsound. She had never done that before, either. There was every possibility that Sherlock needed the microscopes for an urgent case—though untrue, she did not know that—and she had never been one to forget something important.
She knew Sherlock had his own microscope that worked just as well.
Sherlock's strides slowed, and he gradually lifted his head, his eyes unfocused.
That would mean that Molly was suddenly unwilling, or unable, to allow him into the lab. But if she weren't allowed, she would have said so. Easy enough to type that, as well.
Conclusion:
She was unwilling to share her lab space with him any longer.
Sherlock had stopped walking without realizing it. Fountains sprayed into the air off to his right, but he barely heard them, and barely noted the cold flecks of water hitting his face.
Then, he charged forward.
Speculations as to why that would be the case:
Her helping him with his "death" had gotten her in hot water legally, as well as with her superiors.
Nonsense. Mycroft had taken care of that seamlessly already—at least a year ago, perhaps more. Next!
Molly was angry with him.
Sherlock sidestepped some fluttering pigeons, the edge of his mouth twitching.
Not quite sound. The last time they had seen each other had been at John's wedding, and Sherlock had not singled her out to embarrass her at all. He hadn't even been unkind to her boyfriend—though she had been rather fiercely unhappy with him…
Taking stock of every single conversation, Sherlock assured himself that he had not slighted her verbally at all since his return from the grave. He had actually been…kind. As kind as he had known how to be.
So, what remained?
Molly did not like him anymore.
The towering, overshadowing oak just above him creaked and whispered, like an old man half asleep and dreaming. Sherlock stood underneath its vast, dark branches, on the wet grass, having left the walk completely without being conscious of it.
And now he held his breath, standing utterly motionless, turning that thought back and forth in his mind like a dangerously-delicate Venetian glass bulb.
He looked at its curves and edges—this shimmering, ice-cold thought. And assessed its surface and weight. His mind went silent, and one word rose up from the depths of his palace.
Possible.
He swallowed, his mental train moving at a snail's pace now, so as not to derail or take the wrong turning.
The facts to support this possibility:
He had not slighted her at the wedding, but neither had he greeted her. At all. And she had said nothing to him.
He had quite publically complimented Janine's beauty, and given her a flower. But he had said nothing of the lovely color Molly had been wearing, and how it had made her look delicious and happy and radiant. He hadn't even given her a lingering look of pure aesthetic appreciation so that she could see it. Which, even Sherlock knew, was equal with completely ignoring her. In turn, she had looked at him when decorum demanded it. But the rest of the time, she had focused on other guests, and Tom.
Molly had not told him about her broken engagement by way of any medium. Thus, it did not matter to her if she did not see Sherlock the day after something so earth-shaking had happened. She did not need him for comfort.
Comfort? Of course not! He had never given comfort before, to anyone. He had only caused pain, and then bumbled around asking for forgiveness. He would not be the one to turn to for solace. Molly would naturally want someone calm and quiet, who would not try to instantly solve and mend things, or brush it off as something of little import before realizing that the opposite was true. Sherlock knew he was notorious for making emotional situations worse, not better. Anyone who wished the job done properly, seeking a result of peace and contentment, would not approach Sherlock. Instead, she would find a replacement that suited her. One that made her life more interesting yet stable. One that not only could handle any situation with tact and delicacy, but elevated her to a level of importance worthy of her talent. One that acknowledged her.
Molly did not like him anymore.
Possible—quite possible, logically—that her endurance had finally ebbed. That she was weary of constantly giving whilst receiving no benefit or reward herself. Perhaps it was wearing thin, for her, never to be involved in the excitement or glory of a case, and only glimpse the dead bodies and microscope slides and paperwork.
She was tired of it. And tired of him.
Bored with him.
Sherlock realized that his heart was pounding so hard it literally hurt, and pain was needling through all his veins. His skin felt ice-cold, even with his coat on; his throat thick.
Perhaps…he was even irritating to her.
The mere idea of a text from him…
An annoyance.
She saw his text, rolled her eyes and deleted it.
Deleted it.
Because she knew he had his own microscope, and was miffed that he asked for something he did not need.
And she took no pleasure or interest in the possibility of seeing him at all.
No longer…
Fond of him.
She was no longer fond of him.
Sherlock sat down. Too hard.
Right in the dirt at the base of the oak tree. His left hand trembled—he clenched it into a fist as his heartbeat raged and his breathing snapped and hitched, and a feeling like ice-cold mercury slid down through his gut and into his blood and stabbed into the center of his chest.
Once you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, no matter how improbable, must be the truth.
He pressed a hand to his breastbone, but the panic—yes, panic—kept rising. Worse than the drug-induced near-hysteria at Baskerville, and three times as baffling. His phone stayed silent in his pocket, and he sat there, pressed back against the oak, gasping and struggling as the world tipped on its axis.
MHMHMHM
Ten after six in the evening. Rain threatening again.
Sherlock pushed through the doors of the hospital, fighting to make his strides strong and even, despite how weak and trembling his whole body felt. He flinched at the bright fluorescent lights and the white walls and floors, and the deafening clamor of his shoes against the tiles.
He refused to consider the cause of that onslaught of panic in the park. In fact, it hadn't happened. He would delete all memory of it soon. Especially now that he had gathered his wits back and had gone straight to St. Bart's, observed that Molly had not left at six o'clock as she usually did, and deduced that she was still in her office. He would simply look at her and talk to her about the microscopes. He could see through her easily enough—the truth would be there on her face without any uncomfortable subjects needing to be broached, and he could stop this nonsense, go home, have tea and go to bed.
He headed down the glass-walled corridor, aimed at the double doors at the end, ready to barrel through and call her name—
They clacked loudly, and one swung open. Mike Stamford strode out. He drew up suddenly when he caught sight of Sherlock—Sherlock jerked to a halt.
"Holmes!" Mike beamed. "So good to see you, mate!" He held out his hand. Sherlock made himself shake it, forcefully reminding himself that Mike had introduced him to his dearest friend.
"How can I help you?" Mike asked, searching his face.
"I've come to see Molly Hooper about an important case. Is she in?"
"Ah, no," Mike let go of Sherlock's hand and shook his head. "She's taken the day off today, seems." He lowered his voice and winced. "Apparently she's just got un-engaged and she's taking it a bit hard."
"Aha." Sherlock nodded, attempting to keep his face neutral—but he felt the last bit of strength drain out of his shoulders. "Yes, I did hear of it."
"Poor girl," Mike sighed. "She's really very sweet. Can't seem to pick out a guy who deserves her, though."
Sherlock cleared his throat.
"Do you mind if I leave something in her office?"
"Sure, go right ahead," Mike smiled again, and slapped Sherlock's arm as he passed. "Cheers!"
Sherlock didn't answer him. He didn't wait to hear Mike pass through the other doors before he shoved through the ones in front of him, with considerably less vigor than he had planned.
The labs stood empty, half the lights off. The door to Molly's office hung slightly open off to his left. He took a deep breath, and let it out slowly. It sounded loud in this deathly stillness.
He stepped forward, entered the dark office, found the lights and clicked them on.
A desk, to his right, filing cabinets against all the walls, a stool, a black padded swivel chair, a lamp. A framed photo of Molly with her father. Her wearing a red Christmas sweater that had white reindeer on it. He'd seen her wear that one at some point…hadn't he?
Nothing else. Just paperwork, somewhat neatly arranged on the desk, and some pens and pencils. He hadn't had a reason to assess this office as he would a crime scene ever before—but now it struck him what a private person Molly Hooper was.
She had not brought personal effects to surround her at the office. She did not want work and life to mingle. Neither did she want her co-workers knowing much about what she did or thought or liked outside of the office. All the signs of someone closing in on herself. And retreating elsewhere.
Oddly, though—he distinctly remembered several more pictures, a colorful calendar, and little knick-knacks being present the last time he'd come in. And one or two pictures that included him, if he wasn't mistaken.
Before the Fall.
Gone, now.
Nothing left behind except a picture of her with her dead father.
And…
Sherlock frowned, and stepped closer.
A four inch piece of blue yarn. It lay right in front of the stand-up picture frame. Carefully, he reached out, and picked it up between his fingertips.
He knew the weave and make instantly. Irish wool. Of the exact color and texture as a scarf Sherlock used to wear—the scarf that he'd left behind in the bloody mess of coat and clothes he'd shed after he'd been dragged off the pavement—
"What are you doing in here?"
Sherlock spun around and inadvertently rammed the yarn into his coat pocket.
Molly stood there, wearing jeans, boots and a cream-colored sweater, her hair tied back in a ponytail. Brown eyes wide and bright and fixed on him.
"What are you doing in here?" she repeated. Sherlock shook himself.
"I…I've just come…" He straightened up. "You didn't answer my text."
"What do you need the microscopes for?" Molly asked, her voice low and careful. "Come to have a look at my DNA?"
Sherlock blinked—frowned—
"No—what? Your DNA—?"
"I've just come from John and Mary's," she interrupted, gesturing stiffly behind her. "They told me you've been all over Town. Investigating me."
"Investigating you?" Sherlock tried, that tilting sensation returning full force as he fought to follow her logic. "No, not at all. I—"
"Then what do you call it?" she asked, her voice shaking slightly. "Going from the Diogenes Club to the hospital to John's in the middle of the night, and all the way to Scotland Yard? Asking the police questions about me as if I'm some…some criminal? My texts, my boyfriend, what I like in my tea—"
"I never asked that—" Sherlock corrected—and then saw her eyes flash in a way that stopped his heart.
"So…You really have been doing that," she realized. "Treating me like a case." Her eyes brightened and her eyebrows drew together. "What did I do? What did I do wrong?"
Sherlock tipped forward, but stopped himself from stepping toward her.
"Molly—"
"Am I not supposed to have any friends? Is that it?" she suddenly cried. "Is that what you meant before, when…when you said I should avoid all future attempts at a relationship or something? Because you don't trust me?"
Sherlock's lips parted as the implication of her words slammed into him. Tears welled up in her eyes and her voice rose.
"Jim…Jim got past you too! Nobody can blame me for that—nobody saw that. And…and if I've gone to have tea with Mycroft sometimes in the evenings—howcan you be suspicious of him?" she gestured helplessly. "He's…he's powerful and careful and good, and he protected you more than anyone else could have done. And he's looked after me all the while you were gone because I might have been in danger, and he made sure nothing happened to me, which is more than you ever did."
A violent sting shot across Sherlock's face and throat. Nothing had touched him. But he twitched his head down and away and stared at the bottom corner of the filing cabinet.
Molly's hands came up, and she gripped her own fingers.
Silence fell.
"Never mind," she whispered. "You…You can use the microscopes if you want."
She turned, withdrew, and then vacillated on the threshold. Turned halfway back to him.
"I was at home when I got your text. Washing dishes. Lost my grip on the phone and dropped it in the sink. And I don't…You haven't given me your new number."
Sherlock slowly closed his eyes.
Molly hesitated just a moment, then turned and left quietly, her footsteps pattering toward the door, and vanishing after that same door clapped shut.
Sherlock leaned weakly against the side of the desk, slipped a hand under his coat and pressed it to his side, where a sharp pain kneaded in between his third and fourth ribs.
To be continued…
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