Note: Hello again, everyone. I originally hadn't planned on an update today but you can thank Nocturnias, who hurried me to write and update soon :) Please enjoy reading and feel free to review and tell me what you thought!
John had called the police in Leeds again to tell them to get in touch with their colleagues in York and get warrants for all funeral homes in town. Questioning his sanity, Sergeant Cooper had asked him how he thought this would work.
„I'm sure you can find a way to make it work. You really need to be quick. We don't know how many empty coffins have been buried already. And, please try not to provoke any publicity." John was unusually harsh. He didn't like the man on the other end of the line very much. I do hope Sherlock is right with this!
"That is understood, Dr Watson. I am, after all, a trained policeman," the other man replied.
"Well, good, then. Give my regards to you mother, will you?" John ended the call abruptly and settled on his chair waiting for Sherlock to return from Molly's. He didn't feel childish at all.
_.:0:._
When Sherlock had arrived back home he had told John all about Piers Miller and his suspicions on his involvement.
"It is rather clear that Max Knight was involved in the bodies going missing. The leads indicate that strongly. But, everyone describing Max, from his wife to his colleagues, says he's not a very, well, adventurous person. Also, Molly told me some helpful things about him, -" at this, John looked up curiously but Sherlock continued in an unimpressed manner, "- suggesting that he does not have the nerve, and intelligence, to plan the stealing and – whatever else – of up to 600 bodies. Thus, he cannot be the head of this operation. The only person having that much power over him, as well as the resources and motives to make so many corpses disappear, would therefore be his father in law, Piers Miller. Anything else would be impossible, and if you exclude the impossible..."
"Yes, I know, Sherlock. You have mentioned it once or twice. What remains, however improbable… I get the idea! But what are his motives? What is he doing with 600 lifeless corpses stashed away somewhere?"
"There are still nine possibilities as to why he needed these bodies. I will need more data to cut it down to one," Sherlock said cheerily.
_.:0:._
Later that evening, Sherlock cast one last look on the wall before leaving the room and getting his pyjamas. The collection of pictures and lists seemed messy to an uninformed observer but he saw logic in everything hanging there. It made sense just the way it was. Not completely, though. But, he had a plan. He knew very well what he would do next, how he would proceed. He revelled in this feeling. It made him whole to have a plan, to oversee the situation. He had some days of research awaiting him and the typical excitement of an unfolding mystery rushed through him. Now he would store everything away neatly in his mind palace and reboot tomorrow.
He didn't think one bit about Molly Hooper before his head hit the pillow and he fell asleep with a comfortably blank mind.
He woke in the now well-known white room with Molly a few feet away. The sad look on her face was the most haunting, night by night. Sherlock knew and didn't know at the same time that he was dreaming. It was a peculiar feeling. He felt imprisoned in this moment.
Molly settled her eyes on him, absorbing his features, his whole body. He felt almost as if she was deducing him. It made him stir uncomfortably. Is that how I make people feel? An unfamiliar self-awareness crept upon him. Sherlock reached a hand out to her, not knowing his intentions. Just before he could touch her, she retreated. She looked afraid of his touch.
Then, he heard his voice without being aware of speaking. "Don't fear me, Molly. I won't hurt you."
All of a sudden he had a potted orchid in his hand.
"Now that's funny," dream-Molly began speaking. It was the first time since he had started having this dream. Molly had never said a word. "What did you expect of me today?"
"What?" Sherlock was confused. This was taking a very strange turn.
"Did you think I'd go all stuttering and admiring again? You know, it's barely your heart on a plate, Sherlock. It's a bloody plant in a pot. You had your chance. The days in which I would be out of it completely whenever you acknowledged my existence are over." She sounded mean. And disappointed. "I waited for you to get round to it. For years. I was lonely." She looked sad again when she spoke that last sentence. Sherlock felt his chest tighten at those words. He was responsible for her loneliness.
"I'm…. I'm sorry, Molly," he heard himself say. He was still holding the orchid and looked lost. "I don't suppose you can find somewhere to put this thing, anyway?"
"That's typical, Sherlock. We are, as I'm sure you already deduced with your superpower brain, in a flipping empty white room – there's no sideboard! Plus, I've basically just told you I'm finally over you and ready to move on and you still treat me like your personal butler."
"I don't want you to move on," Sherlock said plainly.
Molly's eyes widened. She looked surprised and genuinely hurt by his words. A look - he hated to admit to himself - that was rather familiar to him.
"I mean… I don't mean it like that, obviously; well perhaps… I just… I… you…" Not able to control his actions, Sherlock, suddenly realising that the orchid had conveniently vanished into thin air, stepped forward and grabbed Molly's arms, almost violently. She squeaked quietly. He looked into her eyes intensely and both of them froze for a moment. Then, he gently pressured her to walk backwards until her elbows softly hit a white wall. Sherlock's eyes never left hers when his hands wandered towards Molly's shoulders. She didn't move. With his left arm staying there, his right moved further up her neck and finally rested holding her jaw. Sherlock noted her soft skin.
He blinked and his eyes closed for a split second but when he opened them again, Molly wasn't wearing a shirt anymore. He didn't notice right away but soon felt his hand touching naked skin where there had been cloth a second earlier. Surprised, he looked at her shoulder and saw his fingers fiddle with the strap of Molly's bra. She slowly looked down her body and then back at him.
"Very classy, Sherlock Holmes," she said part angry, part amused.
"Oh, blimey," Sherlock said shyly, "I apologise." After all, it had been his brain basically stripping her. But even as he made this excuse, his eyes wandered from her shoulder to her collarbone and then further down to –
Right then, the previously non-existing door opened and in came – of course – David. He stared at them angrily and walked towards Molly with outstretched arms. She still hadn't moved. Before the blonde man reached her, Sherlock turned and, in one swift movement, punched him in the face almost casually.
At this moment, Sherlock's eyes snapped open and he woke up, shaking and painfully aware of his morning situation. His memories of the dream were blurred. Somehow, he only remembered a weird mixture of feelings.
_.:0:._
After he had showered, he was sitting at the breakfast table with John. While his roommate was currently biting into his second enormous piece of pastry, obviously enjoying it very much, Sherlock had settled for a large cup of coffee and a grumpy face.
When John's phone rang, Sherlock looked up and his previously discontented expression changed into an excited one. John accepted the call as he saw who the caller was and put it on speakerphone.
"Good morning, isn't it?" he asked, knowing that the call so early in the day could only mean one thing. "Do you have any news for us, Sergeant Cooper?"
"Well, I don't know how you gentlemen knew this, but… We're not through with every home yet, but so far we found 38 bodies in four homes to be missing."
Fully aware of the morbid character of their behaviour, Sherlock and John looked at each other and smiled broadly.
So, that's that. Do you think the dream was too much, i.e. too cheesy? I always think dreaming is a nice way to cover up the OOC behaviour that inevitably follows if Sherlock is about to start feeling... but maybe I'm wrong. Please tell me your opinion.
Also, Sherlock's dream caused me to think about the further progress of this story with regard to the rating *ahem*. Do you wish the story to remain clean (which doesn't exclude the possibility of me writing an M-rated one-shot as a kind of cousin to this - it would be irrelevant to the story then)? Or, do you prefer things to, erm, develop...?