Chapter 11: A Call to Action
Baker Street. Now. Emergency. – S.H.
Molly awoke to the text Saturday morning, her bleary brain wrestling desperately through the fog of sleep to understand what it was saying. Something was wrong. Something was wrong, and Sherlock needed her at Baker Street immediately.
Molly rolled out of bed clumsily. Luckily, Greg was over with his kids for the weekend, so she didn't have any need to explain her sudden franticness to anyone. Stumbling over to her closet and blindly reaching in for the first clothes that came to her fingertips – old jeans and a cozy knitted jumper which had seen better days. She threw them on, ran a brush sloppily through her hair, and had just enough presence of mind to grab her phone and wallet before she dashed out of her flat.
What's happened? she texted once she was in the cab. Five minutes passed before a returning text came. Urgent. Explain at Baker Street.- SH
So, it wasn't anything so grave that he wasn't able to reply to her texts – that was something, at least. Suddenly, though, Molly had a vivid recollection of the time that Greg had rushed over to help with what turned out to be Sherlock's best man speech – the poor man still couldn't recount the story without visibly wincing.
Had she overreacted in her half-conscious state? Did Sherlock just need someone to pass a test tube to him? But no, the time with Greg, Sherlock had never said it was an emergency, had he? And she'd never once received a text from Sherlock like this before – especially early on a Saturday morning. Something was definitely wrong. He'd said he would explain to her once she got there. Perhaps it was something with John and Mary – perhaps they were in some sort of trouble.
Molly's heart raced as she stared down at her phone. Should she dial one of them, or would she be potentially making things worse?
The bated indecision lasted long enough for the cab to pull up to Baker Street. "Thanks," she said breathlessly, throwing a stack of notes at the cabbie as she tumbled out.
The door to Baker Street was slightly ajar, and she pushed into the corridor, taking the stairs two steps at a time. She could already hear Sherlock's voice, urgent and irritable.
"- just saying, John, can't you stay with her while Mary – "
Molly burst into the sitting room, breathing heavily, and took a wild scan around the room. John was sitting on the couch. Irene Adler, wearing a robe, was curled into John's chair, nursing a mug, her head propped in her hand. Sherlock was in the midst of pacing the floor, his arms crossed behind his back.
And all of them, including Sherlock, were currently staring at her as if she'd just jumped into the room yelling "Surprise!" and waving a pair of maracas. John had half-risen out of his seat, as if he might need to offer assistance.
"What – " Molly sucked in a breath, her heart still galloping, " - what's happened?"
Sherlock only stared at her blankly, his brows furrowed in confusion. "Happened?" he demanded. "What on earth are you talking about?".
She gaped at him helplessly. "What do you mean, what am I - but you – you texted," she said accusingly, her breath finally coming back to her. "You said there was an emergency!"
Sherlock's eyes widened in momentary surprise, and then, unexpectedly, narrowed again in anger. Molly had just opened her mouth to protest indignantly that he could hardly be upset with her for barging in, considering the circumstances, but he was already whipping around to face Irene Adler, and Molly realized the anger had never been directed at herself at all.
"You took my phone?" he demanded of Irene sharply.
"Borrowed your phone, darling," Irene corrected, pulling it out from her robe pocket and proffering it to him. "After all," she continued silkily, "she'd hardly have come running over for me, now, would she?"
Molly felt her cheeks growing hot with mortification as comprehension of what had actually happened registered with her. Suddenly she was painfully, painfully conscious of her disheveled, bedraggled appearance, her wrinkled clothes, her mussed hair –
She tugged pointlessly at her ratty jumper, and then realized precisely nobody was actually paying any attention to her.
"And you felt the need to bring her here why, exactly?" Sherlock asked Irene as he snatched his phone back from her hand.
"You mean you haven't figured it out yet?" Irene asked delicately, sliding out of her chair and leaning against its arm. "Because I'd have thought it was fairly obvious."
They stared at each other for a second, the air of visceral animosity hanging between them, and suddenly Sherlock's eyes widened slightly in comprehension. Irene's smile took on a faint smugness.
"Molly, dear," Irene said, her eyes still on Sherlock, "how would you like to attend a gala tonight? Sherlock needs someone to keep an eye on the host while he snoops around."
"Sorry, a – a gala?" Molly repeated blankly, trying to process the sudden change in topic. The unused adrenaline was dissipating from her veins, and in its wake, she was left with a hazy sort of exhaustion and faint shakiness in her legs. But at Irene's words, her head was instantly filled with indistinct images of ornate, velveteen ballrooms, silks and gossamer satins, clinking glasses and lilting violin music.
It was the sort of world that she could easily see Irene Adler belonging in – glamorous, dangerous…uncharted. Furtive glances and shadowy rooms, sweeping dresses and clandestine whispers. A little involuntary shiver of excitement ran through Molly despite herself.
Irene Adler was watching her steadily, her mouth tilted up in a catlike smile. Molly's gaze darted over to Sherlock, to find him staring at her as well, but the moment their eyes met, he turned away abruptly.
"No," he said flatly to Irene, offering no further elaboration, and, walking over to the table, began sifting through the heaps of papers scattered there.
The quiver of excitement dropped away from Molly as quickly as it had come.
Irene pushed herself off of the arm, setting her mug down on the coffee table. "I really fail to see the objection, Sherlock," she said, coming closer to him.
"I'm sure you do fail to see any," Sherlock rejoined without looking up, "but I, on the other hand, see a litany of them." He waved flippantly in Molly's direction. "Sorry for the false alarm, Molly, but seeing as Irene's just starting to enjoy herself, it'd probably be best if you headed off now. Do enjoy your weekend."
His curt dismissal of her left Molly gaping ungracefully. A sudden quiver of indignance on her own behalf made her clench her hand involuntarily. After all, she had just rushed over from the other end of town, she looked a bloody mess, and while she wouldn't have expected a thank you for her trouble, she didn't particularly appreciate the impersonal condescension, either.
Staring at Irene and Sherlock, suddenly, the angle of everything seemed to tilt slightly; the vibrating intensity between them evaporated in her eyes; what had seemed only seconds ago fatalistically romantic now suddenly seemed only glib and immature – Hadn't she seen this before? Weren't they just first formers, throwing mud, yanking pigtails, all in a desperate bid to get the other's attention?
"Actually - " John interceded to Molly's surprise, holding up a hand, "…actually - and I hate to agree with Irene Adler on anything, Sherlock – but it's not a terrible idea."
Sherlock glared up at him. "It's not a particularly good one, either," he snapped.
"And why not?" Molly broke in before she could think better of it. A few moments ago, she'd had an intense desire to fall straight through the floor and back into her bed, but that was being quickly erased by the more pressing feeling of being affronted. If John and even the Irene Adler thought Molly was up to the task, who was Sherlock to say she wasn't? He'd asked her to help out on cases before, hadn't he? Now that she was bloody well here, why was the idea of her joining in suddenly so untenable? Was it really just because Sherlock hadn't come up with the idea first?
He stared Molly down mulishly without responding for a few seconds, but then, at last, he betrayed the answer to her question by letting his gaze slip over to Irene. It was only for the briefest second, but Molly caught it all the same.
Got you, she thought vindictively.
"No, you're probably right, actually," Molly said, crossing her arms. "I'd probably just…" She let her own gaze slide pointedly to Irene Adler, and then back to Sherlock, stressing the words carefully, "…get in the way."
The darkening of Sherlock's expression was immediate. His lips pursed into a thin line, and for a gratifying second, she thought she'd won, but then he was turning away, going back to the stacks of papers on the table.
"Then we're in agreement," he said coldly, no longer looking at her.
John crossed his arms as well, frowning. "Alright, but I still don't understand why – "
Sherlock groaned. "Oh, for the love of God," he said harshly, throwing up his hands, "I simply don't have time for this! The gala's tonight, there's still blueprints to review, security details to finalize - oh, fine, fine, shall I explain it then? Shall I lay it all out? It's not a good idea because delicate undercover work is neither in Molly's wheelhouse nor her forte, and with someone clever and prepared like Gruner, we can't afford to make needless mistakes. Gruner is a cobra, John! A polite, attractive, well-behaved cobra, certainly, but a cobra all the same. He doesn't hesitate to strike – he prefers it, even, and at this point, I can't afford to have any more loose threads on this case than I already have!"
"No, he's right, John," Molly said coldly before John could reply. "It's not like I could pull off a whole evening pretending to be something I'm not. After all, I only spent two whole years lying to all his closest friends about him being dead." She turned her gaze to Sherlock. "Lucky I wasn't considered a loose thread back then, I suppose."
Sherlock's cheeks reddened slightly in anger. "The answer is no, and that's final," he said in a tight voice.
It was actually somewhat interesting – Molly didn't think she'd ever seen Sherlock truly angry before. Frustrated, certainly; irritated, obviously; scathing, most definitely; sad, sulky, vulnerable, manic, desperate – all of those things and more, but she didn't think she'd once seen him actually lose his temper. It simply wasn't something Sherlock Holmes did – at least, not over trivial things like this. At the moment, he hadn't quite lost it yet, but Molly could see it there, just beneath the surface, his nostrils slightly flared, the intensity of his gaze burrowing holes into her skull.
And the most surprising part of all was that it didn't frighten her the slightest bit. If anything, it only made her want to dig her heels in deeper. After all, if Sherlock was angry, that meant she was winning. Molly couldn't explain to herself precisely why it was suddenly so important to her that she get to help on the case, but it didn't matter why – what mattered was that Sherlock wasn't allowed to make her out to be some sort of incompetent, bumbling schoolgirl who couldn't get through anything without buggering it up.
"The thing is, Sherlock, if you had someone better, you'd probably have already thought of them by now," Molly said pragmatically, raising an eyebrow.
"I did have someone better," he shot back, "but it seems Rosie's come down with an ear infection, and apparently, that means her mother is unavailable tonight." He sent a dark look towards John, who, seeming entirely unintimidated, only raised his eyebrows, as if daring Sherlock to continue his train of thought.
Sherlock seemed to think better of it and looked back at Molly, taking a step towards her. "Maybe I haven't made myself clear, Molly, but people who cross Adelbert Gruner have a habit of meeting untimely ends."
"And maybe I haven't made myself clear," Molly said, tilting her chin up, "but you don't get to arbitrarily decide when I am and am not allowed to put myself in danger as it suits you. I know you well enough to figure out when you're being stubborn just for the sake of being stubborn, Sherlock. You need someone to do it, and I want to do it."
Sherlock took another step towards her, so he was directly in front of her. "Why?" he asked, and then his voice lowered darkly. "Because it's dangerous and clever?"
The world suddenly seemed to narrow, constrict; John and Irene were no longer in the room, they no longer existed; it was only her and Sherlock now – Sherlock, standing in front of her, Sherlock, glowering down at her, Sherlock, in his dressing gown, his own hair still slightly unkempt, the lightest hint of stubble forming on his chin, his eyes grey and crystalline, a faint whiff of cigarette smoke hanging on him. He was so tangible, suddenly. There was no mystery about him, he was just a man. Molly had always had the strange, irrational feeling that if she ever reached out to touch him, he would dissolve like smoke beneath her touch, but all of a sudden he was very firmly solid, very unenigmatic, very….human.
"No," Molly said quietly, meeting his gaze levelly. "That's why you're doing it, remember? Me, I just want to feel like a princess for an evening."
John huffed out an awkward laugh, and just like that, the spell was broken. They were back in Baker Street, Molly still had unbrushed hair and teeth, they were just two people standing in a room staring at each other stupidly. She took a step back from Sherlock, becoming conscious of Irene Adler watching the two of them with intense captivation, an unreadable look on her face.
"Oh, do let the poor girl have some fun, Sherlock," Irene finally said carelessly, leaning forward. "Not even you'll recognize her once I'm through with her, let alone Adelbert."
Sherlock gave Molly one final, defiant stare, and then the fight seemed to ebb out of him all in one breath. He turned away, speaking swiftly and matter-of-factly. "Well, then, I suppose you're spending your Saturday here. Security detail, Gruner's habits, the layout of the house, your identity – all things to work out with you; and you'll need to be caught up on the case as well, obviously." He gave her a quick, pointed look. "No time for you to go back to your flat and make yourself more…presentable."
Molly thought she did an admirable job of not flinching.
"Right, well, Mary's says they've just finished the appointment for Rosie, so that's my cue," John said, standing up from the couch. "Best of luck, Molly," he said, giving her a brief, soldierly nod. Then he tossed a distrustful glance at Irene, a warning apparent in the stoniness of his expression. "Irene," he said, with no particular warmth.
"Doctor," Irene replied, her voice drenched in honey.
This was the point where Molly should have been coming to her senses, she supposed, where the panic of what she'd agreed to should have been settling into her bones. But instead, she only felt a sick, nervous, little thrill, an electric tingle of anticipation on her fingertips.
When she'd rushed over to Baker Street that morning, Molly suddenly realized, it hadn't once occurred to her to phone Greg for help.
A/N: So - the action is beginning, Irene is causing mayhem as usual, and now, to add to the chaos, Molly gets to join the case. What could possibly go wrong...?
Thanks so much to everyone for reading! I'll see you all for the next chapter :D