Note: Hello everyone. I am back (finally). I'm soooo sorry to have kept you waiting for a new chapter for so long. I had to finish a hugely important project for university. Thanks to everyone who read the story since the last time I updated and to everyone who commented.
I have a lot of reading to do myself because I missed out on so many great updates of all of your beautiful stories. So, I'm off to read now and hopefully will then write my next chapters quickly. Molly moves on will soon be concluded...
Sherlock took great care bandaging Molly's leg with his scarf. Slowly, her brain started to work out what had happened. She was lying on the cold tiles and felt movement at her legs. Carefully, she raised her head to look at Sherlock. His face portrayed a concentrated and determined look. Then, Molly looked to the wound on her thigh and winced when she saw how the cloth was soaked with her blood. After Sherlock tied a knot directly over the wound he quickly proceeded to search for other, minor wounds on her body. His hands lightly ghosted over her leg. When he didn't find anything there, he continued with her other leg, beginning at her feet and working upwards quickly and unusually… gentle. Molly involuntarily blushed when he reached her knee and his hands didn't stop there. She hoped he wouldn't notice but soon she saw his eyes roll and brows twitch in her peripheral vision. She wanted to say something but was lost for words, so she just lay there and waited for him to finish his examination.
Suddenly, John's appearance at the door interrupted the awkward silence. He held a hand tightly to his stomach and Molly could see that he must have lost a substantial amount of blood, but the wound had almost stopped bleeding already. Also, he could stand up straight and walk without major problems by the look of it.
"Oh god, John, you're all right," Molly heard herself say. Her voice sounded weak and as she tried to sit up, she felt dizzy and without her being able to stop it, she fell backwards again immediately. Preparing for the pain that would follow her head hitting the tiles, she closed her eyes in a reflex. But the pain didn't come. Sherlock had swiftly put a large hand behind her neck and guided her back to the ground. Surprised, Molly opened her eyes again and glared at him.
"Yes, he is, Molly. You, on the other hand, are only partly right. So please don't try to get up again." He looked grave and his jaw clenched. He avoided looking into her eyes. A silence that was a little too long for the situation followed. Molly noticed that Sherlock's hand was still holding her neck and his thumb began moving on her skin just the slightest bit.
As he didn't stop the movement or show any desire to say something else, Molly continued to stare at him.
"Err, yes… yes, I'm OK," the somewhat uncomfortable sounding voice of John cut through the pregnant silence, "Maybe I should… yeah, I'm calling a doctor for you… And I probably should get myself sorted as well…"
As quickly as his injury allowed, John walked to the exit at the opposite side of the room and entered into the corridor. Molly heard his footsteps become quieter and could also make out a distant 'hello?' as he tried to get someone's attention in the fairly deserted part of the hospital.
Sherlock was still silent and still avoided her gaze. Molly became nervous and, just when she wanted to say something, he moved the hand that wasn't holding her neck to her cheek. She felt incredibly hot all of a sudden. Then, his pupils, which had been inspecting the whole room constantly, settled on his hand on her face and he looked alarmed. The hand left her face, but even before Molly could feel disappointed about the loss of the comforting touch, she felt the hand tighten around her shoulder instead. There it rested while Sherlock remained mute. His eyes ceased observing their surroundings and now his gaze only jumped between her bloodied leg and some spot next to her head.
"Sherlock, I –"
"There will come someone to help you soon. Keep your eyes open."
_.:0:._
This is entirely my fault. Sherlock felt nauseated when he saw the gash in Molly's leg and the steady bleeding. That was new. He'd never had problems with seeing blood. Still, he didn't let this distract him and made quick work tying his scarf so that the pressure point was most likely to stop her bleeding.
When he searched for other cuts on Molly, he finally processed his own state and was content not to notice any injuries. The only thing out of the ordinary was his heartbeat, which was still at a bit over 100 beats per minute. Normally, he would calm down quickly after a rush of adrenaline. Sherlock's inner listing of probable causes for his still elevated heart rate was interrupted when he felt Molly's weak thumping of blood through her unharmed leg speed up as well. This wasn't good. She needed to stay as calm as possible; otherwise she would suffer an unnecessary blood loss. When he saw her face redden, he understood and let go of her leg. He wanted to say something, tell her to calm down, but was simply not able to. It was as if the constant stream of thought was cut off from his vocal cords.
Then, John appeared and Sherlock quickly assessed his friend's injuries. He felt relieved when noticing no grave harm. Although there was a big cut covering his stomach area, it obviously wasn't very deep.
Sherlock noticed Molly move and speak. She tried to sit up but lacked the strength to hold her own body. Knowing that she would fall back even before she did, his hand darted behind her head and supported her neck when she lay back down. Finally, he spoke, telling her not to make effort trying to sit up. Really, the woman has a medical degree and fails to realise what to do when confronted with a serious amount of blood loss?
When her head was safely back on the floor, Sherlock decided to keep holding her. Just in case. He wanted to be able to help her and it just felt so much safer like this. That's completely irrational, he scolded himself, Molly has lost a lot of blood, yes, but if she gets medical help soon and approximately eight to twelve stitches, she will most definitely be fine. Plus, holding her like an emotional fool will not help her at all.
Still, he just couldn't bring himself to let her go. He was actually scared to. Plus, he found it made him somewhat calmer. His breathing slowed and he started to relax and drift off into his mind palace. Remembering and categorising everything that had happened, he noticed Molly get calmer as well. Her body warmth beneath him assured Sherlock.
Absorbing John's words helped Sherlock ground himself further. Knowing that medical help would come timely, he was able to completely dive into his thoughts. Phil and Piers Miller had vanished but the detective was fairly certain that he knew where they had gone. Scanning the room once again, he pieced the bits of information together again. There had definitely been a key ring amongst the belongings of Max Knight. This and his clothes, the distinct smell. Also, Phil's… Suddenly, Sherlock noticed his hand caressing Molly's cheek. What in the name of… He had no recollection of putting his hand there. Embarrassed and with a quick movement, he drew back and found another, safer, spot to rest his hand, carefully avoiding to look at her directly. He briefly thought about letting go of her altogether but dismissed the idea. What would she think if he were to move away so suddenly? But since when, exactly, did he care about what people thought? Before Sherlock could search for an answer, he heard Molly's voice.
"Sherlock, I-"
He didn't know why but he was afraid of what she was going to say. What if she addressed the weird closeness? All of a sudden, Sherlock felt miserable and painfully self-aware.
"There will come someone to help you soon. Keep your eyes open."
Before the pathologist could respond, they heard the door swing open and a paramedic hurried in.
"Oh, good. She lost 1.8 pints of blood and has almost lost consciousness twice. Get some A positive."
"How do you know-?" was all Molly could say before Sherlock abruptly stood up and left.
_.:0:._
John was lying on his back and flinched when the needle penetrated his skin for the third time. He had refused any anaesthetic or pain medication because "I can't be clouded by that stuff, I need to be going with Sherlock as soon as this is done! Now go on and fix it." Mike Stamford, who had taken to stitching him up personally, only shrugged. He knew John well enough to know there was no way to convince him that this wasn't the best of ideas. Sherlock stood in the corner and grinned as he heard his friend's words. His clothes and hands were still covered in Molly's blood, as he hadn't bothered washing before he had hurried to find his friend. He scanned his red palms curiously.
John turned his head and looked at Sherlock. "Hey Romeo, care to tell me now where we'll be going?"
Mike raised an eyebrow at this but didn't say anything. Sherlock growled. Instead of giving an answer, he said, "I brought your gun. You left it in the back corridor." Mike's second brow darted up.
"John, you took a gun into the-"
"Relax, Mike, I didn't shoot it." And, as if that was enough compensation, he questioned Sherlock again, "so? Where did he go?"
Sherlock took out his phone and typed in a few things, looked at the screen and grinned. "Beefy Stuart's Beef," he said finally.
John waited a few seconds and, when his friend didn't say anything else, he asked, "Erm, maybe you could elaborate?"
"Beefy Stuart's Beef is, as the name strongly suggests, a meat market. To be clear, it was a meat market, with its own slaughterhouse. Alistair Stuart declared the business bankrupt a year ago. Since then, all his facilities are out of use."
"Oh, ok. And what makes you think that's where Phil went to?"
"The missing key, of course."
"Of course." John made sure to use his most sarcastic tone and looked at Sherlock expectantly.
The detective sighed before he resumed talking. "When I entered the morgue, I had a quick look at Max Knight's corpse and his belongings but didn't find anything particularly interesting, safe for the fact that he had obviously not been home for the last few days, he had shaved under a light he hadn't been used to and his posture was bent from sleeping on an unfamiliar surface. Ah, and the distinct smell of his clothes, of course. But then I saw Phil. The way he held himself told me that he had not slept well for the last four days, too – give or take a day. And his stubble was showing similar patterns as Knight's. They had shaved under the same light in front of the same, too small, mirror. They couldn't reach the left side of their faces properly."
"So they were in the same place."
"Yes. And this place is the former slaughterhouse of Mister Alistair 'Beefy' Stuart. See, the key ring in Knight's belongings... I didn't think anything of it at first. It's a bright yellow and the letters BSB are engraved. I had seen that Phil was carrying a key of a similar size in his trouser pocket but couldn't be completely sure it was the same. But, after Miller had interrupted and quickly left the scene, I knew it. He had helped me without meaning to. The old man was intelligent enough to steal the key after he had spotted it as well between Knight's clothes. By taking it, he gave me all the proof I needed. The slaughterhouse is their 'headquarters'. It's convenient, particularly as it's probably also where they hide the bodies."
Sherlock ended his little speech by showing the screen of his phone to John. It displayed the logo of Beefy Stuart's meat house, which was of a bright yellow.
Soon, Mike had finished stitching John up and told him to slowly try and stand. The blond man hopped off the slab and put on the fresh shirt Mike had brought him. It was too big but John didn't care. Sherlock had washed his hands but ignored his blood stained clothes.
"Shall we?" he asked his friend, "I already called Lestrade." He turned to leave.
When both men hurried along the corridors, John asked "Will Molly be OK?"
Sherlock nodded curtly "Yes."