Author: Howlynn
Realm: Sherlock
Story Title: A Statue in the Temple of Mendacity. Part two
Summary: John is safe and sound with Sherlock. What happens if he isn't? What if things don't go as planned, and of course, they never do.
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. Welcome back to Part two, If you thought the first part was complicated, well you are in for a bit more. Please keep your hands inside the compartment at all times.
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.
- A sorrow's crown of sorrow is remembering happier times.
Alfred Lord Tennyson
Molly immediately texted Sherlock.
[Where are you? Are you alright? Please, tell me this is a magic trick.]
She waited for a reply but when nothing was returned, she packed her largest purse with toiletries and a simple change of clothes and headed to Baker Street.
Mrs. Hudson has a kitchen full of people and Molly feels a little foolish for intruding, but Mrs. Hudson welcomes her with all those motherly words older women could deliver with such heart that they warmed you, even if they were technically quite meaningless. "Bless your heart. My poor lamb. There, there," and many others made an appearance by the time her first cup of tea had washed down three biscuits.
Mrs. Hudson presided over the gathering like a dignified pelican fussing over fish. She was as strong as her brew and she might sigh and look toward the ceiling as if waiting to hear footsteps from time to time, but she never faltered under the watchful eye of Isabelle Turner. She never batted an eye at the way her friends discussed her trouble with renters. They all gave the impression of being a bit mad with the way they jumped from subject to subject and seemed to make comments that sounded a bit rude, but not one of them appeared bothered by what the others said. Molly sat quietly, listening and trying to read it all as the older women expressed their condolences in one breath and criticism in the next.
"Well, my married ones have their little domestics but they aren't as volatile as your boys were. You were just too soft on them. I said it from day one. Should have taken them in hand and you have always let your lines blur between mothering them a bit and being their mother," Mrs. Turner said with conviction.
"Oh, blast that, Izzy. You think you know everything and I saw exactly what you were about back in '84. Don't let her fool you for a wink, Martha. She's got no room to talk, carrying on with that Wiggams chap like he was God's gift. Left owing her eight month's rent and had that other poor girl in trouble to boot. That wasn't even the last of your business I could –" Mrs. Dalrimple said with popping-wide merry eyes.
"You just hush, Ida Dalrimple." Mrs. Turner cuts her off.
"No use bringing up old hash. Martha needs that like she needs long red knickers. Besides, her guest belonged to the poor crippled doctor and she might take all our chin-wagging wrong. We are so sorry to hear of your loss, my poor, poor, dearie." Laura Hernsley declared sweetly to Molly.
Molly nodded, but doesn't know quite what to say. They were discussing John and Sherlock as a couple, yet asking no explanation that she and John had also been a couple. She found it amusing and yet slightly disconcerting that women of this age could be so worldly. She wondered how long it had taken Mrs. Hudson to fill them in on the various shades of gay.
She had always thought older ladies to be a bit more like Mrs. Brewerton, sweet but painfully inexperienced when it came to matters outside the realm of polite social standards of their own girlhood. Mrs. Brewerton had referred to John and Sherlock being alluded to as a couple in the papers as 'that silly gossipy business' and had taken care to explain that her boyfriend is 'all man', as if John could not love a woman if he'd ever actually been with a man. It had befuddled Molly to contemplate that if John had been with Sherlock openly, that Mrs. Brewerton would have changed how she viewed John.
She wondered again what John had meant when he told her he had loved men in the past but had said he had 'not really' made love to them. She assumed it meant he had dallied with a man or two, but had some silly definition of his own about what sex was or wasn't. She would have had such fun dragging such an explanation out of him, bit by teasing bit, until he laughed and went on a rant about his bizarre self-analytical hedging. None of it mattered, at all.
Sherlock and John were the most exasperatingly beautiful kind of love she'd ever seen. All she'd asked was to be near it. Being part of it would be a dream. She knew she was capable of loving each of them with all her heart, but even if they couldn't love her back in the glow of each other, this thought of it destroyed was far worse. John would not have jumped off a sodding bridge. To hell with the fact she'd seen the proof, she wasn't sure, because she knew first hand that proof didn't prove anything.
Upstairs thumps and knocks can be heard. Mrs. Hudson glared upward and shook her head in disgust. "Still up there poking around. John was such a private boy. He would have hated this. That man has a screw loose somewhere, and I don't care who he thinks he is," Martha Hudson says in a loud whisper.
"What's he nosing in the poor man's business for anyhow? He's dead, isn't he? Drove me mad, that government car parked outside my building at all hours, watching your building and taking my parking. Should be ashamed," Mrs. Turner whispered back with her teeth gritted.
"Oh, you know Mycroft, he does it his way. All I know is he better not leave a mess. of it. I already had my share when we lost Sherlock. The bits of…people… I found just lolling around in plain sight," she made a tsk noise and widened her eyes for emphasis, "would have made your insides quiver."
Molly smirked behind her teacup, certain she could have made a list of some of the things Mrs. Hudson disapproved of the most. She'd helped Sherlock acquire most of it.
Mrs. Hernsley leaned forward with a knowing expression and a superior air of authority. "Porn. All men young and old are perverts and the only cure for it is a pine box. Do you remember that nice Mr. Wilson, always dressed so fancy and proper, had to be a hundred and twelve if a day? He had a bucket load of magazines delivered every month. Told me they were 'scientific journals', and me believing him , too. Up and dies on me and I go up to make a list of what damage might need seeing about. Everything neat as a pin and in good order, until I open the spare bedroom. He has it stacked floor to ceiling. Must'a had half-a-million quid invested in looking at naked people. Not just girls, mind you. Took me weeks and cost me three vertebrae in me lower back. Hadn't made a dent. Some of it went back to the bloody nineteen-sixties. Finally found a dealer who hauled it all away for me, tickled to George."
"I do remember that. And the tidy check you managed to pick up as well." Mrs. Turner elbowed Mrs. Hernsley and they snicker conspiratorially.
"The wages of Satan spend just as pretty as the wages of back-breaking work." Mrs. Hernsley says with a wink. "It kept me the whole winter of my back surgery, with a set of burst pipes, the roof leaking like a colander, two empty flats and those three kids with that blasted dog chewing the window frames to splinters, and me laid up and helpless. It was that mad old tosser and his porn, kept me from ending up in some charity house."
"Well they won't find a scrap of naughty reading material up there. My boys were a good lot. Had no decency in the way they loved a good serial killer, but they were still such good boys, despite the noise and the strange smells, and all the rest. I'll have to haul that microwave out bit by bit, wouldn't want to alert any nosy biological hazard type people. John used that thing, just like it was natural to have had…listen to me going on. They were good boys." Mrs. Hudson doesn't sound defensive, just lost and miserable.
Everyone makes noises of agreement and Mrs. Dalrimple stands and embraces her cooing, "Of course they were, love. None better. You know we are here for you if you need anything," she says and the others nod and soon everyone is hugging and sniffling.
Mrs. Hudson hushes them all, cocking her ear upward. "Well, sounds like they are about finished. You all better push along before he makes one of his comments and upsets me. I'll ring you later."
Just about the time the ladies had gathered their coats, purses, gloves and scarves, Mycroft knocked. He greeted each by name and with a genteel bow that did not fool any of them, and those who acknowledged him at all, did so with a disapproving harrumph. He strolled into the kitchen with an indulgent smile fixed to his lips and reached in his pocket and withdrew an envelope. He placed it on the table, and tapped it with the tip of a finger.
"For any inconvenience. Also, I will continue to pay the rent until you are notified otherwise. We will eventually see to the belongings of my brother and Doctor Watson, but for the time being, their flat is to remain sealed. If you have any need to enter, simply call the number and we will send an agent to assist you. We have removed the most sensitive official papers, but one can't be too careful about the nature of the documents strewn about in my brother's files. Your cooperation is most appreciated," he said, eyes darting here and there as if searching for something.
"Bit late to worry about me seeing something secret. Who has been dusting it all along?" Mrs. Hudson says slightly offended.
"I realize that my brother relied on you, but this is more to protect you than one might conclude. I don't wish it to be necessary for you to allow strangers into the building in search of tenants at this time. They may have another agenda besides seeking accommodations and I will need more time to find all of Sherlock's hidden compartments. Wouldn't want someone inadvertently injured from accidentally discovering something he felt needed to be kept undisclosed." Mycroft explains as if he is indulging her.
"Sounds like a load of drip to me. You were never worried before, but it's none of my concern. I will need to run the taps from time to time. Pipes go bad just sitting. Would you like tea?" she says waving for him to take a seat.
"No. Thank you. I must get back. Terribly bad timing with the cholera and riots in Conakry, but you don't need to know about that. Miss Hooper, I request that you see me to my car?" he asks pleasantly.
The second Molly steps foot out into the street with him, he takes her arm and guides her firmly toward the car and opens the door. "Please," he says, gesturing for her to get in his car.
Molly slides clumsily across the seat and Mycroft follows, placing his damp umbrella near a vent and fussing with his pant creases to keep them from losing their pristine crisp lines. Molly doesn't wait for him to begin "Please tell me this is another magic trick?" she says unable to control how airy her voice sounds.
"Not to my knowledge."
"Sherlock knows about what happened?"
"I have not heard a peep from him since yesterday afternoon. Do explain to me what you were thinking? What possessed you to…betray him like that?"
"Mycroft, I never meant it to…John just wanted to go with him. So badly. That's all. I don't understand. John should be with Sherlock. He was falling apart. And your brother, too. Sherlock was going off on some stupid nutter plan he wouldn't survive. John just wanted to go with him and help. Greg said they saw John with him, well he didn't know it was him, but he picked up on the similarities. You will have to ask Sherlock why, because I don't think that was John's plan when he left me."
"No, by all means, assuage your guilt in the death of John Watson. You didn't actually hold his head under water. You just sent him to the bridge for a swimming lesson. I do feel it worth warning you, not to rely on my assistance in the future. In fact, should my brother not be located relatively quickly, you may deduce that we have now assumed an adversarial position, you and I. I am not especially reasonable when I am angered. And I am currently very angry with you. Imagine, if you will, how very fractious I shall be if your thoughtless actions should lead to Sherlock becoming careless in his endeavors."
"I imagine you will be far more creative than John was last night. Do keep in mind that even while he had his gun stuck under my chin, right here," she tucks two fingers under her chin for emphasis, " and I thought he might kill me…that he was that far into that cold dangerous side you and Sherlock warned me existed. Keep this one point in your mind-castle or whatever you call it… that even then, my intention was still to save them both. I may have made the wrong choice, but if John is dead, your brother had the last clear chance to save him. All he had to do was say he needed John."
Molly grabbed the sleeve of Mycroft's ebony suit jacket. He reacts by pulling away, but she latches on tightly in desperation. "All he had to do was say yes. That's all. Did he not read John's face? Could he have turned him down? Could Sherlock be that cruel? I could never believe he would send him away. He told me, he couldn't. He said he didn't think he was strong enough to turn him down. If he did? God, if he did and John…"
"I don't know," his voice rose slightly. Mycroft wrests his arm out of her grip.
Molly retreats, aghast that Mycroft Holmes doesn't have an answer, she pleads, "I couldn't have guessed…not ever, that it might come to…this. I didn't have a choice. You weren't there."
Mycroft brushes fastidiously at the slight wrinkle her hand has left on his sleeve. He made a disgusted noise and when he looks back up, his face is again that pleasant, smiling mask of fury he plays so well. The eyes gave it away: it is hatred, not amusement. "Be that as it may, you owed them both the courtesy of not deviating from the plan. The consequences… I fear John's suicide is just the tip of the iceberg. Tragic as that alone may seem, you have no idea where the ordnance was stored so you have no idea what may blow up in your face." Mycroft's eyes are slits of anger. He tugs at his collar and his breathing is harsh. "You are a very foolish girl, Miss Hooper. Now, get out of my sight and if you happen to hear from our dead duo, I expect an immediate review of all information."
Molly nods. "You and Sherlock should have told him. Blame me all you want, but John didn't jump from a bridge because I lied to him. You should think about that," her voice is low and hoarse with an emotional wobble. Molly glares at Mycroft and then shakes her head in disgust. She had let a spark of hope rise when he wanted to speak to her. She hoped John and Sherlock had come up with this crazy scheme to make it so the public thought them both dead, but Mycroft being so angry didn't look like that was the case. She had been so pleased when he asked her to see him out, and now she just wanted out of this car.
"I imagine we will be speaking further on this matter very soon. Don't bother hiding, my dear. My agents won't let you vanish as easily this time." He smirked at her and waved his hand, dismissing her. The driver opened her door, indicating she should exit the car.
Molly stood on the kerb and watched Mycroft and several other officially unmarked vehicles drive away. She checked her phone. There were no messages from Sherlock. The stairs up to 221b called her. She glanced around, knowing there were cameras and that she would be caught sneaking up the stairs, but with a sigh, she tiptoed up the stairs anyway. Mycroft could only have her murdered once.
She knew where John kept his escape bag, and she had to see if it was there or not. She used her key and quietly stepped into the kitchen. The flat seemed eerie. This was not the first time she'd been here without John, but it was the first time she ever felt shivers. She worked among the dead, and had never believed in ghost stories, but for her, there were ghosts in these rooms.
Memories of moments assaulted her and her breath began huffing into airy, almost silent, sobs.
Looking at the mantle, she could see the ghost of a strange red box, so similar to the one she herself had given Sherlock that night, which he didn't even open after making fun of her. She could see her box tossed aside and an uncomfortable Sherlock Holmes excusing himself from the horrible Christmas Eve party, with a look of fear on his face almost masked by his aloof disdain. She had felt like such a fool that night. But she had not understood at the time that he was going through exactly the same thing she is now.
There should be a blond head turned away from her, peeking above the big red-and-taupe cigar chair with the union jack cushion. John's voice should be teasing her that she wasn't doing him any good in the kitchen.
There are dishes in the sink, and she felt the urge to wash them and put them away. They were not John's, but were left by the crew of people who had been riffling through his things. For her, John and Sherlock still breathed here and it broke something deep in her to think they might never come home.
She sat at the kitchen table and took a moment to let the despair, pulsating and begging for her to welcome it, have her. She needed to see if that bag was here, but she didn't want to know. If his escape bag was here, it meant he didn't take it with him and she couldn't even decide if that was a good thing or a bad one, because its absence would not prove he was alive. Mycroft's team could have taken it, but if it were here, then she had to assume this entire horrible day may be real. If John had somehow faked this whole thing, and he and Sherlock were just off saving the world together as they should be this minute, John would have taken the bag. She is clinging to a tiny optimism. Going upstairs may not confirm her hope that John is alive but it could obviously solidify that all hope of ever seeing him again is lost.
Greg said that John had returned to the flat and made tea and that he had left a note on Waterloo Bridge. She had read his note, or most of it. She hoped. She was clinging to this last tiny optimism that John somehow was safe and he and Sherlock were just unable to make her aware that this was a ruse. It may be days before they had the ability to make contact with her, and that faith was all she was clinging to right this minute. If she went up to his room and the bag is there, she could no longer believe in that scenario. Her ability to tell herself that scenario won't exist. A missing bag might not constitute proof, but its presence would be a definitive argument that John is dead.
Her tears subsided and the numbness slowly seeped back into her again. Molly breathed deeply and listened to the quiet of the flat. She can't hear them, but her mind played echoes of mumbled laughter and recreated moments of conversations John has spoken of between him and Sherlock. He'd told her how Sherlock and he had argued long ago about heroes existing. He'd told her how manic Sherlock could be when he really wanted to smoke and John had talked him into quitting. She was never part of these moments, yet she feels them around her, echoes of lost joy. She also remembers her own times in this flat.
She and John had christened nearly every surface with a shag. This very table had seen a great deal of action in the past few months. She smiled softly, lost in the first time they had returned from phone shopping and had barely dropped the bags in the floor before he had her bent over this table and had bruised her left hip, banging into her greedily from behind. It had been so naughty and wild and depraved, yet it was the fieriest passion she'd ever felt.
She remembered the way she had giggled and protested and yet had wanted him with abandoned need. She had tried to warn herself that he wouldn't respect a girl who acted like such a whore for a man, but that thought hadn't stopped her from meeting his thrusts, lost in that building need of her own to be free and take the pleasure of him no matter the consequences. Her stomach fluttered at the recalled sensation of giving up all pretenses that she was not lost in him that moment. She closed her eyes and sighed, shakily placing her hand in that exact spot where she had allowed herself to be consumed beyond reason or thought.
Her first flutter of honest love for John had made its home in her heart right here. They had noisily spent themselves and after she had returned to reality and her mind had come down from the chemical rush of this ridiculous moment of unguarded passion; her first reaction had been shame. Her head rested on this table, John's weight and breath heavy on her as she took stock of her skirt raked up and her knickers stretching painfully around her ankles and tangled in her stockings. She still had her shoes on and she could feel fluids leaching slowly down her leg. They had not even used a condom, which was mortifyingly against her rules and John had been so adamant on this point.
She had voiced her concern without meaning to. "I'm not on birth control," And she couldn't help but let it sound slightly accusatory and terribly fearful.
John had moved off her and she'd twisted around. He looked down at her, at the evidence of them making such a terrible error of judgment. She was bending and trying to struggle with her clothing and right herself. She couldn't meet his eyes. They were doctors. They were educated adults and both of them had just acted like idiotic teens. The thought of John's sexual past and the likelihood that he'd acquired any number of horrible tokens of this sort of behavior filled her with fury at herself. She knew better than this.
John had stopped her and smiled in gentle amusement, "I am a bit anal about getting myself tested. Every month actually, even though I haven't… been with anyone for months. I never do this. It's something about you. I don't think I have ever been so amazed, so utterly focused on a woman before. Forgive me. You are incredible and dangerous and I will apologize for losing my head here, but I won't apologize for how you make me feel. From now on we will be more careful. As far as a slip on the pregnancy bit?" he looks down then back in her eyes, cupping her cheek gently. "We'll cross that bridge together. You are a doctor and you know the options. I wouldn't be unhappy, no matter what you decided. My vote would be to not terminate, just so you know. But, my vote doesn't really count, unless you want it too."
Molly had looked in his eyes and studied him, taken aback by his quiet candid speech. "If I did get pregnant and wanted to keep it? You would be okay with that in what way?"
"I would hope you would allow me to be part of it? I would be a bit of a pain in the arse if you didn't want me around my child. I would try to live with it, if it's what you wanted, but you ought to assume there would be stalking. Not in a way that would threaten either of you, but I do know myself well enough to know I would have a telescope and worm my way into Mycroft's good graces enough to keep a very close eye on any mini-me created. Sorry, it would kill me not to love it, mistake or not," he states earnestly.
Molly had smiled and no, she had not wanted to have an accident at that moment, but his answer had dazzled a few little secret wondering thoughts out of her from time to time. She could see him as a father. She could imagine his face as he buttoned up a tiny coat and lifted a small child in his arms. Molly could see that he would have made a fantastic father, if he hadn't fallen in love with Sherlock Holmes. A place for her had rooted, perhaps, even if Sherlock came home. Maybe, John could have the best of both worlds, and she could live with being a single mom with the support of a father like him for her child. It was not something she told John. She couldn't tell him anything like that now, but it was on her list of someday.
Now her list may be crushed. She stands abruptly as she let the thought of being a mother slip away. Her eyes were dry and her nose was running as she made her way stoically up the stairs to check for a deep blue duffle at the back of John's wardrobe, under his other suitcases and stacks of blankets.