here we go again. thank you for the feedback i have received, it really means a lot to know someone is reading and - dear me - even liking. so if you have a moment to spare, please, drop a note!
ML
.
.
.
When Molly's lips pressed on his, Sherlock didn't flinch or turn away. He merely laid there, still as a stone, not in any conveying that what she was doing had any kind of effect on him. Inside his head the amount of action had an entirely different scale, of course – it was almost like the immobility of his physical being would have given fuel to the whirlwind that was his brain. And as Molly's lips continued exploring his, Sherlock's mind worked overtime in simultaneously analyzing the situation, mapping different options as of how to get out of it as well as trying to remember what had happened before he had woken up in this place, in order to get a satisfying answer to the question how he - and Moriarty, still unconscious only some feet away from him - had been captured by Molly. The same Molly Sherlock had long ago categorized as harmless but somewhat useful, and downright silly to the point of being ridiculously easy to take advantage of with a few well-placed words and an occasional smile.
But as her lips parted from his and she pulled back enough for their eyes to lock, it was painfully obvious to Sherlock that a miscalculation of the most severe kind had indeed taken place.
As Molly stared into his eyes it was obvious that she hadn't noticed - or rather, cared - that Sherlock's response to her kiss had been non-existent to say the most. Judging by her expression there was little in the world in general that couldhave moved her – in her intense stare wasn't to be found a trace of that dumb-founded, adoring gaze of a puppy looking at his master, the one Sherlock had thought he had recognized so many times before. No, there was clarity in her eyes now; it was now more than obvious that the girlish infatuation that had been painted on her features before had been just a well-rehearsed role, and now Sherlock was looking at the person behind the mask.
To his increasing discomfort Sherlock wasn't quite sure what his role in this new script with new players would be, or how it would end for him.
The blankness of her facial expression wavered and gave way to a cold smile as she pulled away and straightened herself. "I've wanted to do that for a while." Even her tone was different; there were no changes in the note, no forced lightness or good humour. She sounded almost machine-like.
Sherlock stared at her, carefully evaluating the situation. It wouldn't be wise to upset her with his usual bluntness, but obviously lying or otherwise faking his attitude towards her wouldn't do either. So when he replied, he kept his tone as even as hers had been. "I know."
Molly's smile died and her eyes dimmed like a curtain would have been pulled down in front of them. "Yes, I would suppose you did know." She crossed her arms over her chest. "And you took advantage of that. So many times. Always."
Despite her defensive body language her voice remained neutral; there was no accusation, not even hurt. It alarmed Sherlock; she seemed to be stripped bare from all emotion.
He didn't even blink. "Yes, Molly, I did." There was no use of trying to deny it. It was too late for that.
They both stayed quiet for a while, recognizing what had just been said. Then Sherlock spoke again. "What now?" He sounded calm. In actual fact he was not. The difference between the Molly he had known - well, thought he had known - and the Molly standing here in front of him was striking; if her actions would differ in the same scale it did not set a very promising forecast. She was, it would seem, capable of much more than he had given her credit for.
Molly looked at him for a while as if mapping out the different options, then glanced at Moriarty and then turned her eyes back to Sherlock. Her eyes looked dark and empty and her voice, as hollow as it was, had an awful glee in it. "I guess... I guess you'll be staying here."
A sudden wave of anger flushed through Sherlock and he couldn't help it from colouring his voice. "You can't just keep me here."
Molly tilted her head like a bird of prey observing a dying animal. "But of course I can. The whole world thinks you're dead, Sherlock. There was even a funeral." The slight softness of her voice did not correspond with her demeanor.
Sherlock turned his eyes to the ceiling. This really was not good at all. He focused on the anger he felt and let go of it; it wouldn't do him any good to be distracted by it.
Collecting his thoughts he turned his look back to Molly. His voice was now free of any emotion. "Molly, tell me - What happened? How did you get me - and him - " he nodded towards Moriarty without looking at him, "- here in the first place?" He slipped a hint of interest in his tone; perhaps some recognition - a promise of admiration - would get her to lower her guards a bit.
Molly's eyes flashed and from the subtle switch in her posture Sherlock saw he had succeeded in pushing a button inside her - she was obviously quite satisfied with herself. "Didn't expect I would be able to do something like that? It wasn't that difficult, really. Of course I had some help - Jimmy here has a lot more enemies than you would imagine. More than you, actually." She paused for a while and shot a meaningful glance at him. Then she continued without waiting a response. " We'd kept an eye on both of you for quite a while, and once you were in that warehouse, well, it was a child's play from there."
Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "We?"
Molly didn't respond immediately; she obviously didn't want to reveal too much. "Yes, we. Like I said, I had help." She sounded cautious.
"In return for what?" Sherlock had a faint idea but he wanted her to confirm it.
Molly glanced at Moriarty with a very specific look in her eyes. It was enough of an answer; the price for "their" help- whoever they were - was no more or no less than Moriarty's life. Where it left Sherlock himself he couldn't tell.
Sherlock continued with a calm voice. "Then why is he still here? Why isn't he already dead?" It was like he would have been asking about the price of milk; it didn't seem to affect him at all that the trade that was going on involved a blunt execution of a human life.
Molly hesitated a bit before replying. Then, probably not being able to resist herself, she allowed herself to answer. "I don't think it's killing him they're even after. Well, at least immediately. He doesn't deserve such kindness. " She stared at Moriarty with hatred in her eyes. The resentment was so strong in her whole being that it made Sherlock wonder what in fact Moriarty had done to her - what has sparred such animosity towards Jim from IT. He stored the notion in his brain for a later use - any detail might prove to be useful.
Molly snapped out from staring at Moriarty and turned her eyes back to Sherlock. The glazed veil cast on them by the anger aroused by the criminal mastermind was gone. With a voice very matter-of fact she continued. " As for why he is still here, well, they are letting the dust settle, so to speak. Before they come and collect him. Wait for a while so that his accomplishes won't suspect anything. But why would they, really - " The expression on her face turned into a victorious grin, "Yours didn't, either."
The mention of John made an surge of electricity jolt through Sherlock's body. "John - what have you done to him?" Worry raised its head inside of him, but he managed to keep it off from his voice.
Molly rolled her eyes. "John, John, John. Always John. I don't get it, really. He's so... unimpressive! So plain!"
"What have you done to him?" Sherlock's voice was more demanding now.
Molly snorted. "Nothing. Absolutely nothing. He just came by this morning, stupid sod, asking questions."
A flicker of hope flashed through Sherlock's mind. Obviously John had suspected something; maybe he knew Molly was keeping him. Maybe he didn't believe Sherlock was dead.
Molly must have spotted the thought process on his face, or just plain guessed what he was thinking. "Oh, I wouldn't put my hopes there, really. He was as clueless as ever." She sounded mocking.
Sherlock narrowed his eyes, trying to spot any trace of nervousness in her. There must had been a valid reason for John to come and see Molly; the real question remaining was if Molly had been able to convince him that there was nothing dodgy going on. Judging by Molly's behavior she seemed to think she was in the clear - but then again, people make mistakes.
That much was clear.
Molly glanced at her watch. As cool and calm on the outside as she may have seemed, in actual fact she was not. John stopping by had given her a scare; if that stupid man was indeed suspecting something - which is what Sherlock obviously hoped for - she would now have to go down to Bart's and ensure that her tracks were propely covered. The problem was that the people collecting Moriarty would come in a few hours; she would barely have enough time to do what she needed to.
Deciding it was time to go she looked back at Sherlock, and saw immediately from the intense stare pointed at herself that he was working overtime in analyzing her and the situation at hand. She forced a smile on her face.
"Well, I have to take care of something now. I trust you'll be fine by yourself for a while." It was almost eerie how casual she sounded, given the situation - she was holding two men as her prisoners, at least the other one of which would soon be taken away and tortured to death. And here she was, sounding and acting like nothing out of the ordinary was taking place.
Sherlock stared at her and nodded, slowly. "I trust I will." His tone was equally out of place; completely calm.
Suddenly, in the other bed, Moriarty grunted and moved. Both Sherlock's and Molly's eyes locked on him in an instant.
"Oh, how nice, you can keep each other company." Molly's voice had a strange ring of satisfaction in it.
As she turned on her heels and left the room Sherlock barely noticed; all of his attention was captured by the man slowly coming into his sense from the drug-induced sleep. When Moriarty opened his eyes, even as dazed and disoriented as he still was, his conscious presence entering the room changed the atmosphere in an instant. Sherlock stared at him as he was waking up, and the look on his sharp face could not have been categorized as anything else but anticipation.
.
.
.
.
.
It hadn't taken long for John to get to Bart's. What was considerably more time-consuming was getting an access to the files he was after - Sherlock's dental charts and the identification report done based on them. It was Saturday so very few people were working, the secretary having access to the said files not being one of them. Therefore John had to manage by himself, which meant that not being familiar with the archiving system he had very little to go with and had to use a process of trial and error in his search.
The medical records in Bart's were massive, and as John was starting the third hour of his search, this fact started to become very apparent to him. He went through the archives like a robot, not thinking much, just mechanically repeating the task of opening a folder, checking the contents and putting it away. It felt rather good actually, to be able to focus on something in that way; it gave him a feeling of purpose, of accomplishing something, and also a much needed break from his thoughts. His brain hadn't had much rest since Sherlock's death - at first he had been haunted by the memories of him and then, after the crazy thought that Sherlock was not dead after all had planted itself in his brain, it hadn't exactly got any calmer inside John's head. But now, sitting in the quiet archive of Bart's as the weak winter light was dimming behind the windows, having a task to accomplish, he finally had a small moment of peace.
So wrapped was he into the monotonous task that when he finally opened a folder with dental records in it, it took a few seconds for the information to register. As it did, it jolted his body into a whole new level of alertness; now it was a mere question of skipping into H for Holmes and he would have the information he had came in for. His mouth felt dry as he flipped through the folders - Holly, Holman, Holmer.
Holmes. Sherlock. John grabbed the folder almost violently and spread it open on the desk next to him.
In the now darkening room, in the dim light of the small lamp, on the worn surface of the old table was spread out the dental records of the man he had loved; it felt odd to look at them. There was an x-ray of the piece of the jaw bone found from the site of the fire and there was the report of identification signed by Molly Hooper. It stated that based on the evidence available, the body in which the jaw bone had belonged to had indeed been that of Mr Sherlock Holmes who therefore was now officially proclaimed dead. John heart throbbed in his ears as he compared the x-rays of the jaw bone and Sherlock's teeth; after a while of studying them it became quite obvious to him that they were a match.
Disappointment slithered inside him like a snake. He had allowed himself to hope that there would have been a mistake; that the bone found from the site would have not matched Sherlock's records. But it did, and the coppery taste of defeat rose in his mouth.
But then something - he didn't even quite know what it was - made him look again. Not at the x-ray of the bone; it was obviously a match to the other x-rays. Instead John focused his attention to the actual dental records; there was something off. Squinting he stared at the pale grey images, trying to catch what he thought he had seen.
When he saw it again it was obvious, but he still reached for the archive computer beside him on the desk and switched it on. Keeping his eyes on the x-ray on the table he stuck the USB-stick in to the computer and opened the files he had put there, taken from Sherlock's laptop. As the x-rays he had downloaded from Sherlock's laptop opened up next to the ones there had been in the archive, the proof of what John had already seen was right there, confirmed in front of his face.
When Sherlock was a child he had fell from a roof of the family country house and as a result chipped a tooth. The damage had been small, but it was visible in the x-ray John had taken from Sherlock's laptop.
There was no sign of it in the x-rays in the archive.
The x-rays in the archive were not Sherlock's. Somebody had changed them.
Sherlock was not dead.
The blood flowing in his ears made a humming sound. John put his hands on the table - whether it was for balance or for reassuring himself that this was real, and tactile, and he was not sleeping, he couldn't tell. Closing his eyes he took a deep breath, and another one, and another one. After few moments, when he had the feeling he was in control of himself again, he turned around with the sole intention of going out, getting into his car, driving to Molly's and forcing whatever information she would have out of her, he realized he wasn't alone in the room anymore.
The door leading to the archive was open and in the doorway stood Molly. From her face John saw that she knew he knew. The expression painted on her features was a strange mixture of panic, anger and at the same time, complete blankness; there was no real emotion in her eyes. Like she would have not cared, or being even capable of caring.
Had John not have the reaction speed of a soldier Molly would have probably had enough time to get away; but the years of war had given him such speed that even before his conscious mind knew what his body was doing he was next to her, stopping her attempt of escape by grabbing her - using a bit more strength that would have been necessary. She squealed out of pain or surprise; John didn't care. As he thrust her against the wall he heard how air escaped from her lungs when she slammed against it. Locking her immobile he glared at her, and when he spoke his voice left little room for argument.
"You will take me to him, now."
Looking at the expression on John's face made Molly's mouth dry; she reckoned it was out of fear.
.
.
.
any mistakes with the language i apologize, english is not my native - i hope the errors don't interfere too much with the story. thanks for reading!