Author: Howlynn
Realm: Sherlock
Story Title: A Statue in the Temple of Mendacity.
Summary: Molly counts. She Promised to help him. But, the reality of saving Sherlock ends up leading to places she never expected. Sherlock needs her again, but this time she must save John.
Character/Relationships: John and Molly would never have noticed each other if he were not dead. The thing is, Molly knows he isn't and she never expected things to get this complicated.
I Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.
Molly stands in the hallway, wanting to go after him, but knowing that by the time she changed out of her robe, he would probably be gone. She didn't have the skills to follow him if he didn't want her too. She considers calling John, but what could she say? 'Hello, Sherlock is alive and he's going to be dead if we don't do something,' didn't sound like a very smart plan.
She would have to trust him, and hope he didn't stay gone. She whispers this comfort to herself, but her heart feels the flood of despair at her own attempt to read the situation with glasses of rose tinted optimism. If she told John, there would be no predicting his reaction. She thought of going to Mycroft and hoping he could somehow make Sherlock listen. He would never listen to Mycroft. If only he could talk to John. Sherlock would listen to him. Every possible solution had a matching problem until it swirled in her mind like garish horses at a carousel with knights unarmed.
She thought carefully in the shower. She reclines on her bed for a while, hoping for sleep or inspiration to rescue her from her throbbing head. She drifts on waves of hopelessness, terror and wishes. In her bed that still smells of John, looking at her ring, the conversation with Sherlock won't stop. It accosts her again and again.
She knows the easy path will be to follow his instructions, but she also knows it isn't the right path. Sherlock is wrong. John would not want this. Sherlock has no right to dictate everyone else's life. It had been a lovely time alone with only the sun and the sea and the wind to share John with, but he doesn't belong to her and he never could, so long as they are built on lies.
She gives up and rises from the bed, admitting she will be unable to fall asleep in this state of mind. She is too restless to sleep and she wants to be near John. Maybe she could get his advice without giving away what she needs to know. It is late but she decides to go to John's anyway. He won't mind her showing up. She dresses and is just exiting the lift when her landlady catches hold of her and beams. "Let us have a look then, love?"
Molly drew a blank, then with relief, she holds out her hand. "Oh, bless my soul, it's just right. Not too posh and not too miserly. The work of a quality bloke. I never would'a let him in, mind, cept I goh'a fine eye for quality. Don't you worry about that lit'le limp eiv'ver. That one is pure buh'on tuck leather, not a dodgy no-name overstuffed recliner. You hold on to that one, he's not brand new, but he's still got lots of comfortable sit left on him." Mrs. Brewerton had worked for forty-five years in a furniture store and she had single-handedly found all the beautiful floral designer furniture in Molly's flat.
"I believe he does indeed, Mrs. B." she said unable to stop her fondness for this older woman from lighting up her face.
Molly had honestly thought the sofa was hideous, but Mrs. Brewerton insisted that it was tasteful and sturdy as a brick. She had been correct and even if it reminded Molly of something that belonged in the flat of some elderly woman who served tea and gossip with lace doilies, it is still in perfect shape all these years later.
"I bet you'll 'ave a bit of padding sewn back on 'im in no time at all. Bit on the stringy side to my taste, but most men 'aven't the sense to eat a proper meal without a nice lit'le missus to get them sorted out. I will share my recipe book, came from Bertie's Mum, rest their souls. Can't find proper recipes these days, no 'ow, all this bloody microwave, bed-sit nonsense and 'orrid foreign take-away. I think we should start straight away, just get you in the 'abit of setting a nice table and making 'im feel like the world will come to a full-stop if he misses a good 'ome cooked —"
"That sounds delightful, and so very kind of you. I don't mean to be rude, but I've been called into work and it is sort of an emergency," Molly interjected when Mrs. Brewerton finally took a breath.
"Oh, that explains, you all showered and dressed at this dreadful 'our. Didn't think you would be starting out for a date. But, you never know these days. You will 'ave to set your foot down once you are wed, though, no proper wife could keep your hours…not with a good man sitting at 'ome waiting."
"I don't think it will be a problem. He's a doctor too, so we both have some strange hours. It isn't a nine to five profession, though I would appreciate it if everyone did decide to die at a decent hour."
Mrs. Brewerton looked appalled.
"Oh, not that I want anyone to, of course, I mean, I have to work when the work presents itself and not always at the times I would pick. That's all." She smiles uncomfortably and promises to contact her soon so that they could begin cooking lessons.
Molly would not have been terribly enthused about sequestering herself in her landlady's flat for countless evenings, but she had eaten Mrs. Brewerton's holiday dinners for years and though Molly could fry just about anything to perfection, that was also where her culinary expertise ended.
Molly caught a cab to John's.
She knocks on the door and notices right away that John is both angry and agitated with worry. "It's gone. I have been through everything. It is just bloody gone. I called Lestrade but I know I will never see it again. Why that? Bloody, hell, I will never forgive myself…"
Molly steps in the door, eyes wide. "I'm sorry, what is gone?"
"The violin. His bloody violin. Molly. Oh, God. They took his…violin." John squats down, taking a seat on the stairs to wait for Lestrade, and drops his head to his knees, his hands rake through his hair as if he is losing his mind. "I will never find it. I didn't keep it safe. I should have kept it safe. I should have kept him…safe." John is mourning the violin like Sherlock has died all over again.
Molly looks around the flat quickly while still on the landing. They didn't take the computer or the telly. She peeks through the kitchen door and sees Sherlock's microscope sits out on the counter exactly where he probably left it. "Did they take anything else? Have you checked his room?"
John looks up at her as if she has just poured salt on a whipped puppy's behind. "God, no. I didn't even think…" John stands and stumbles in his rush through the kitchen doorway toward Sherlock's room. He opens the door and disappears inside. "Bloody hell."
"What is it?" she asks while hurrying through the kitchen.
"They made a tip of it. I think they took some of his clothes." He says trying to right things and suddenly he gets a strange look on his face and rushes out of the room, bumping her enough that she has to sidestep to keep her balance.
When Molly follows, she finds John clutching the mantle and sobbing quietly.
She puts her arms around him and doesn't say a word. They stand like this for a few minutes and she can feel the shudders of pain ripping him apart. He takes several deep breaths and sniffs. He grows still, yet he's still tense with pure anger. Finally, John says, "What kind of person would want that? Who steals a God-damned skull? Who does that?"
"This happened while we were on holiday?" she asked.
"What? No. Went round the corner to grab a bite and needed bread and a few things, came back." Suddenly, he registered fully that Molly was there. "What are you doing here? Everything alright?"
"I…um. Missed you," she tried to sound cheery about that at least.
John nods and a lopsided smile appears like this pleases him. Maybe he is glad she showed up, but his attention is quickly locked back on the break in and his smile vanishes, replaced with a lost look of anger without a place to rage, "I just don't understand how anyone could want a skull. It won't bring much, if they can sell it at all. I mean, Mrs. Hudson heard nothing. I was gone an hour, at most. Other than the violin, the rest of it was just my sentimental rubbish. Who would break in here, leave things of value and haul off an armload of rubbish?"
Molly can think of one person who might. She makes tea and he accepts it. She watches him. He waffles among anger, barely controlled tears and going blank.
John digs around in the sitting room. He notices some small thing gone from time to time setting off a string of curses. He has checked his own room as well only to find it untouched. He sits in his chair finally in exhaustion; his finger settles to his mouth and she can see his mind plotting revenge.
Lestrade comes by and fills out a report, promising to turn it over to the proper channels. John is derisive about any hope that it will have priority. Greg takes his attitude patiently without offence. Years of being around Sherlock made people immune to irrational and accusatory tones.
'Prop'ably kids. Fink they will make a killin' on Ebay or such. Sell it to his bloody fans. " Lestrade says carefully looking to Molly for a clue what he can say.
"Yeah. I see some tosser wearing that coat, and I swear he'll wish he'd never heard the name. Vultures, whoever did this, and anyone who buys so much as a pair of his socks. Vultures. Not one person in this city believed in him, for months... and now they want to have…pieces of him. It's sick."
Lestrade grimaces, but lets the comment go. He had believed enough to clear Sherlock's name. He had arrested him, but had given them both fair warning that he'd been ordered to take Sherlock in for formal questioning. They could have run before he got there. But, sneaking off quietly wasn't dramatic enough. Had to chin his boss first and then run off as Sherlock's hostage, the mad bugger. "Worlds full of 'em. You have any idea what I should put the value to be?"
" I will have Mycroft send a valuation for the violin. Knowing him, it's worth a million pounds and not insured," John says exhausted and rubbing his eyes as if it is all his fault.
"Just for safety's sake, I am leavin' the skull off. You know who it ..I mean where he got that item? Saw it, but it never occurred to me to ask." Greg looks down, embarrassed.
John's eyes move unconsciously to the spot it had always occupied. "No idea. I don't have a clue. I was a bit afraid to ask considering what turned up in our refrigerator,"John says with a fond smile.
Lestrade rolls his eyes and they both laugh. "How about you, Miss Hooper? You were sort of his supplier for things along that line. Do you know?"
Molly giggled, "Well, I tended to supply him things that were a bit…"
"Fresher?" John interposes with a twinkle in his eye.
"Scarier and malodorous? God I thought Sally was going to have a seizure when we got back to the car that night she found eyeballs in the microwave. She couldn't talk fast enough about the violations in this flat." Lestrade jumps in and reminisces.
John grins and for a moment, the tension is gone and they are all remembering better times. "That was the very night I decided to move in. Skull, riding crop in the mortuary, left behind, kidnapped by Mycroft and offered money to spy on this guy I have almost decided is a nutter, and the icing on the cake was we just got back from impersonating you, with a badge he nicked because he said he was annoyed with you, and here you were, in the flat, ransacking it with Anderson. Mrs. Hudson was in a tither and on that basis, I decided to move right in. Should have run screaming."
Lestrade shakes his head and looks at Molly, "And you're dating this idiot? Should have both your heads examined."
"Oh, I will do you one better," John leans forward and winks at Molly. "We. Are engaged."
Lestrade opens his mouth in shock, and then hits John on the back in delight. "That is fantastic. Wow, I am happy for you both then. Set a date?"
Molly shyly informs him, "Oh, not for a while. He just asked me this morning. We are taking things slowly." She extends her hand for him to admire her ring and blushes at the reaction.
"John, you clever tosser. That is absolutely lovely." He looks a little absent and wears a soft melancholy smile as he addresses Molly, "Well, I think that's the smart thing. Got all the time in the world to make sure. Wish I'd been so smart. Best of luck and all that. You have told Mrs. Hudson?" Greg says standing to leave.
"No getting around it. She helped me pick it," John admits.
"Well, you should be out celebrating or in celebrating, and I should be off. Far as the skull goes, it's probably best it not be mentioned. Hate to find out there were the remains of a missing person here all this time. How'd that look for bollocks?" Greg laughs a bit ghoulishly at the idea.
Greg lets himself out and promises to see them Sunday.
John says no more, his attention locked to the empty places in the room. All of the cheer seems to have leached away with Greg. They settle in on the sofa, but other than refilling tea and television comments, Molly might as well not be there.
John retreats deep into thought. His eyebrows crease and he fidgets but she can see he isn't going to be much for conversation. By midnight, Molly can see he is getting worse in his moody restless anger, not better. She has to do it, and the longer she waits the harder it will be. She tries to think of some way to bring it up, without it being a row.
She sighs deeply and leans forward, toward John. Her hand reaches out and settles on his knee. "I need to speak with you. But not here," she whispers, looking around the room knowing Mycroft or his cronies were probably making transcripts of all they say.
John looks at her and he clears his throat and shakes his head. "Not tonight, ok? Look, I know what it has to be about and I can't take any more bad news tonight and if it is good news, I don't want to associate it with…this. Sorry I blurted it all out to Greg, right in the middle of all that. " He waves toward the mantle and looks away.
Molly squeezes his knee. "Oh. No. It isn't about that. Look, I may know who," she whispers then looks around the room poignantly.
He blinks several times then studies her. She sees it dawn on him that she wants to talk privately. "Walk?"
They head toward Regent's Park and walk the outer circle. Near York Bridge they stop and sit on a bench hidden in the shadows. Molly twiddles her hair, but can't figure out how to begin.
"I assume you think this is Mycroft, who took it all, do you? Is there a reason he would break into my flat and steal things he could have asked for?"
"Ok, you are about to be really, really cross with me," Molly began tentatively, "but… You have to promise that you will hear it all before you get angry."
He grins at her like any indulgent boyfriend would do, hoping she hasn't cheated or decided to break it off. "Ok? What could you possibly tell me that would make me more angry than the missing violin? Are you handing me my P45, Molly?" he smiles at her as if to say she's worried about nothing.
"No, it isn't about us, not exactly. I am trying to figure out how to tell you, that I know who took it and so do you, if you think about it." She glances at him and grabs his hand for strength.
"So, Mycroft?"
"Close."
"I have no idea what you mean. The Queen doesn't need Sherlock's violin and that's the only person I know for certain that Mycroft is acquainted with other than you. I did take your name off the list of possible criminal skull thieves."
She takes a deep breath. "What did they take that belongs to you?"
"It all belongs to me…now."
Molly leans forward, "List the things that were taken, in your mind. What do they have in common? Who would desire those specific items?" she asks very slowly.
He shakes his head in that blank way people do when you tell them they have cancer or any news that goes against everything they expect. "No. If I had any idea, I would probably be shooting him or her right now. That wasn't just a violin to me. It was his. He loved that damned thing more than he ever did any … human being… Oh, Jesus." He bends forward, voice losing its calm and sounding a bit queasy. "Molly? I need you to spit it out, because I am thinking you're trying to say he's alive and every time I get my hopes up like that…so stupid… but I am just now getting to be …rational, and then it will be something else and…"
"John. Get your hopes up." She searches his face to gauge the impact of her words before saying more. Nothing she will ever say, not the nonsense said after love-making or the things they said on the island will ever matter as much as the words she will say in the next few seconds.