Hello everyone! So I'm continuing this story. The plot line is going to loosely follow the plot of season 3 of Sherlock. I own nothing from the show. Also, thank you to everyone who reviewed, favorited, or followed. Your support means a lot to me! Chapters should be posted around once a week.
Molly fumbled around in her purse for her keys. Her fingers brushed against her lipstick, extra bobby pins, hair ties, phone, and wallet. But there were no keys to be found. Molly groaned. Her eyes were drooping and she was about to fall over from pure exhaustion. Was this really happening right now? Oh! My spare key, Molly remembered. She stood on tiptoe and reached for her wind chimes. She overturned the widest and largest one and caught the key that fell out in her palm. A few months back, she stuffed some cotton balls into the chime to prevent the key from falling out. Even if someone stood directly under the chimes, they still wouldn't be able to see the white cotton balls because light didn't really enter there, and so it was a safe place to put an extra key. Putting it under a mat or in the soil of a nearby potted plant was way overused. She was even a bit proud of herself for coming up with the idea.
Molly jabbed at the key hole repeatedly, not really paying attention to where it was being aimed, until it finally slid through the key hole. She twisted the key and pushed against the door. After stepping inside, she kicked off her heels. Something warm and furry brushed against her ankles.
"Hello, Toby. I'll get your dinner in a moment. Sorry to keep you waiting." Molly was about to go to her kitchen, when she remembered to lock her door. And deadbolt it. No matter how tired she was, she would never forget to do that. Being with Sherlock taught her how to be cautious. She glided into the kitchen, checking the time on the digital clock in her living room as she walked past. 3:32. Gah. Why couldn't Lestrade have just let her gone home? She opened the bottom cupboard by the sink and pulled out a can of cat food.
Toby followed her into the kitchen, his tail restlessly flicking the air. He sat by one of the legs of the kitchen table, watching Molly's every move, silently urging her to hurry up; he was starving. He meowed to make an emphasis. After forever, she successfully opened the food with a can opener and placed the meal in front of the anxious cat. Molly drifted into her hallway, leaving her feline noisily munching in the other room. Now, turn right into her bathroom to take a shower, or turn left into the warm comfort of her room? She just wanted to sleep, but she was filthy. Molly had dirt and gravel on her from when the men tackled her to the ground, and she had both their blood and her blood on her body. She didn't want to track that into her clean, spotless sheets. But oh well. She could always clean them later. She turned left into her bedroom and flung herself into the bed, falling asleep before she even hit the blankets.
Molly's eyes snapped open to the annoying blare of her alarm. She smacked her hand on her bedside side table until it finally found the snooze button and the ceaseless beeping finally stopped. She didn't need to go to work today; her boss would hopefully understand.
Molly naturally woke up and glanced at the time. 11:42. The first thing she thought was that Toby's breakfast was late. She got up, almost stepping on the dark cat waiting by her bed. She walked into the kitchen with Toby on her heels and then got him his food. She turned on the kettle for tea and then dragged herself into the bathroom.
After a short struggle of getting her dress off, she stepped into the shower. Heat from the steaming water spread into her sore body, filling every crevice with warmth. Molly's scrubbing became faster as the sleepiness faded away. She washed away the dirt and blood off her and watched as it flowed down the drain. If only her worries could flow down the drain too. Why was she kidnapped? Even after hours of interrogation, the two men who kidnapped her refused to say anything about who the heck Cam was or what their purpose was. She just hoped that this "Cam" would just leave her alone now that he failed in whatever he was trying to accomplish. She had a feeling he wouldn't, but she could always hope. She turned off the shower head and stepped out feeling fresh and rejuvenated. She could worry about this later. Today, she just wanted to relax. She pulled on an old faded sweater and pajama pants.
Molly poured herself her tea and then sat down in the living room. She switched on her television as Toby pounced onto her lap, settling himself there and then purring contentedly.
Mycroft Holmes slowly walked into the hospital room, his umbrella trailing after him. He gave a contemptuous look to the two men handcuffed to their beds.
"Hitting a woman. How disdainful," he said scornfully. Mycroft reached behind him and locked the door, and then he drew the blinds, but not before the men in the beds caught a glimpse of a few guards positioning themselves at the door. Mycroft stepped to the bedside and withdrew a file from under his gray coat.
"Now let's see what we have here…Kurt Amsterdam and Kevin Blackbourne." Kurt gave a nervous gulp and licked his dry lips. How did this man find out who they were? They didn't give any information to the authorities.
Mycroft continued, retrieving another item from his pockets: a syringe. Mycroft pulled on a dull, white glove and flexed his fingers in an intimidating manner. "Now, we can do this the hard way, or the easy way. The choice is yours."
Mycroft left the room a few hours later a bit unsatisfied. The two men gave in quite easily after a few doses of the potent drug his private medical team had been developing. He quite was looking forward to having some more fun. And the information the two men gave him didn't give him much to go on: they were blackmailed into kidnapping Molly. It made sense with their backgrounds, and so Mycroft concluded that it was believable. Not only that, but they didn't even know the real name of who they were working for. They only knew that he went by "Cam".
Mycroft waved the security positioned at the door off and he walked down to his sleek, black ride awaiting him. The chauffeur opened the door for Mycroft, and sensing his distress, the driver poured him a glass of bourbon. Mycroft gave a polite, forced smile and graciously sipped the alcohol. He settled himself into the plush seats as the vehicle started driving. Mycroft leaned his head onto his arm and started getting into one of his deep thought sessions.
Now who would target Molly? The girl wasn't even capable of being a threat to a rabbit. The only reason people ever went after Molly was to get to Sherlock. But they weren't even together anymore. He sighed. But anyone who paid even the slightest bit of attention could clearly see that Sherlock and Molly still loved each other, despite being apart for seven months, 23 days, and –Mycroft checked his watch- 14 hours. He really thought they would be back together by now. The car pulled up in the driveway of his mansion. The driver got out and opened the door for Mycroft. Anthea, his assistant, stood outside, waiting for Mycroft while busily texting on her phone.
"Upgrade her surveillance status. Grade 3, active," Mycroft ordered as he walked up to his front door.
Anthea's black kitten heels clicked on the cement as she followed him. "Sorry, sir. Who's status?"
"Molly Hooper."
Molly retrieved her phone from the counter where she left it the other night. 6 new messages. She had a feeling she knew who they were all from.
SH (2:29am): Did you make it home safely?
SH (2:34am): Answer me or I'll have to call Mycroft in.
SH (2:46am): He informs me that you're still at the station and he'll be personally monitoring your trip back to your apartment.
SH (3:30am): I've just received news you safely made it past the threshold of your doorway. Good night.
SH (11:00am): It's 11 o'clock already. I checked the security footage, and it seems you have not left the apartment, which means you're sleeping in and taking the day off.
SH (11:48am): You slept in what you wore last night, too exhausted to shower or even take off your clothes. You bathed this morning and decided to wear your horrendous brown green sweater. After making your tea, you decided to settle into the couch and watch some telly with Toby curled in your lap. You just realized you forgot your phone somewhere, most likely the kitchen counter (you left it there when you fed Toby last night, you never forget, no matter how late), and you're reading all your messages now.
Molly laughed. He was right on point, as always. She texted a reply.
MH: I did make it home safely, thank you for your concern. Your deductions were all correct. And for your information, this sweater may be a tad unattractive, but it's REALLY comfortable.
Molly resumed watching the telly and stroked Toby's dark fur while waiting for a reply. She didn't have to wait too long. She laughed at his reply as she read it. No one could infuriate her like Sherlock did, but no one could cheer her up the way he did either.
Sherlock, adorned with pajamas and safety goggles, stood in the kitchen and smiled to himself as he read Molly's texts. John stepped into the room and placed a cup of coffee on the table for Sherlock.
"Texting Molly?" John asked.
Sherlock slipped the phone into his pocket and reached for the cup of coffee John had just set down. He took a noisy sip, tasting the beverage. Ugh. John forgot the sugar. "Why would you say that?"
"You were smiling. You never smile at your phone unless it's something Molly related," John pointed out with a smirk.
Sherlock resumed what he was doing before texting Molly, and that was an experiment. He took some nearby prongs and picked up an eyeball with it, slowly moving the eye closer to the lit Bunsen burner to the right of him.
After a few moments, John cleared his throat. "So Sherlock, you busy?"
Sherlock sighed heavily. "Just occupying myself. Sometimes it's so hard not smoking." He frowned. Especially now that Molly wasn't there anymore to help him with his cravings. The eyeball slipped out from the prong's handles and fell right into the mug of coffee John made for Sherlock. Oh well. It wasn't good coffee anyway.
"Mm-hmm. Mind if I interrupt?" John asked.
Sherlock put down his prongs and gestured to a seat. "Be my guest."
John pulled out a chair and sat himself down. "So," he began. "The big question."
"Mmm."
John folded his hands and placed it on the table in front of him. "The best man," he stated.
"The best man?" asked Sherlock confusedly.
"What do you think?" asked John hopefully.
Sherlock didn't hesitate to reply. "Billy Kincaid."
"Sorry, what?" John stared at him uncomprehendingly.
"Billy Kincaid, the Camden Garrotter. Best man I ever knew. Vast contributions to charity, never disclosed," Sherlock quick-fired. John frowned. Sherlock continued. "Personally managed to save three hospitals from closure and ran the best and safest children's homes in north England." John rubbed his fingers over his eyes. Sherlock grimaced briefly. "Yes, every now and again there'd be some garrottings, but stacking up on the lives saved against the garrottings, on balance I'd say-"
John interrupted him. "For my wedding! For me. I need a best man."
"Oh, right."
"Maybe not a garrotter," John suggested hopefully.
"Gavin?"
"Who?"
"Gavin Lestrade? He's a man, and good at it."
"It's Greg," John said exasperatedly. "And he's not my best friend."
"Oh, Mike Stamford, I see. Well, he's nice, um, though I'm not sure how well he'd cope with all-"
"No!" John interrupted again. Good gracious. Could Sherlock really be this dense? John recalled Sherlock's lack of knowledge on the solar system. Yes, he could be spectacularly ignorant about some things. "Mike's great, but he's not my best friend."
Sherlock stared at John thoughtfully, waiting for John to say something more because he really couldn't think of another friend to suggest.
"Look, Sherlock, this is the biggest and most important day of my life."
Sherlock pulled a dubious face. "Well…."
"No! It is." John pointed a finger at Sherlock. "It is, and I want to be up there with the two people that I love and care about most in the world."
"Yes."
John nodded. Finally, Sherlock got it! Wait no. He stared at Sherlock's face for a long moment, and concluded that Sherlock was still quite oblivious. "So, Mary Morstan…"
"Yes." Sherlock continued staring at John, patiently waiting for further information.
John sighed. "And…." John stared at Sherlock for a moment longer, waiting to see if the puzzle pieces would finally click in that brilliant mind of his. They didn't. "You."
Sherlock stood there, blinking rapidly. He made not a sound, nor a move. Sherlock had completely frozen; he stared blankly in John's direction but wasn't really looking at him. John impatiently tapped his foot. "Sherlock," John said a bit worriedly. The silence dragged on, and Sherlock's blank stare continued. "That's getting a bit scary now," John said with a nervous chuckle.
Sherlock's eyes refocused on John after he took a deep breath. He narrowed his eyes slightly. "So, in fact…you, you mean-"
"Yes," John replied, relieved that Sherlock had finally come back to Earth.
"I'm your…" John nodded. "Best…"
"Man," John finished, at the exact time Sherlock said "friend?"
John smiled. "Yeah. Of course you are. Course you're my best friend."
Sherlock smiled back, and without looking down, he reached for his mug of coffee and sipped the dark liquid. John stared at him with interest. Sherlock did know that there was an eyeball in there right?
"Well how was that?"
Sherlock lipped his lips, thinking for a moment. "Surprisingly okay."
"So you'll have to make a speech of course."
Sherlock smiled grimly. "Of course."
Hope you enjoyed! Don't forget to leave a review! I love those :) And also, polite, constructive criticism would be welcome and helpful.