How's the party, Molly? Nigel-from-the-lab texted her. Sherlock throwing a big bash?
Worst. Par-tay. EVAR! she texted back. No one's talking to Sherlock, so Sherlock's doing monologues.
Ow-ow-ow! You should have stayed here. Kemper came as Harry Potter, and he keeps poking Miss Travis from Oncology on the bottom with his wand.
Gosh. Sounds like fun, she typed, But I'm better off here. They may need someone who's able to call in the ambulance if the rest of this lot decides it's worth the prison time to kill Sherlock. OMG, he just offered to tell how he first met Greg Lestrade. Greg hates this story—and he's quite right, too. Sherlock always makes him sound like a perfect ass. Laters. Thinking on her feet she moved closer to Sherlock, handed him her glass, and said firmly, "We've heard that one, Sherlock. Be a dear and get me a refill?"
For a half a second anger flared in Sherlock's eyes, and she prepared for him to round on her. She made herself meet that hard gaze, chin up and unflinching, waiting to see if what she'd come to think of as "the moment" happened again.
It did. There was a split second of bewilderment, as fast as a shooting star, and then his eyes were questioning her, and his head cocked slightly. He took her glass and leaned close, murmuring, "Saving me from my own mistakes again?"
"Someone has to," she murmured back, then turned and smiled at Greg Lestrade. "It's good to see you here, and I like your new friend. She's got brains."
"That, too," Lestrade said, glancing across the room to where his date was chattering with Mary Marston. "Met her through John and Mary. Cut above my usual. Keep worrying I'm too Non-U for her. But so far she doesn't seem to mind if I swallow my Ts every so often."
She liked Greg Lestrade. She might even have more than liked him, if it weren't for liking Sherlock…and she was beginning to think that she'd finally come far enough to choose someone else if she wanted to. Not just to show herself she could, and because she was desperate to believe someone could want her, the way she had with Jim Moriarty, either. Now she could choose because whatever she and Sherlock had between them, it was less and less the one-sided infatuation it had once been. Sherlock called it "friendship," when he could be brought to call it anything at all. Molly was willing to settle for that word. It seemed right. Still, if Greg hadn't just found a very admirable new date, she'd have been tempted to at least try to get his attention.
He seemed as impressed with her. "You're looking really good tonight, Molly. I don't know what it is, but—"
"It's three weeks working with a friend of Sherlock's brother, Mycroft. If I understand what they've told me, she's someone's aunt's sister-in-law. Really nice lady who's dragged me around to Oxfam to buy up all the nice things that Town and County give to charity to help us little people. Would you believe I've got a genuine Emilia Wickstead in my closet?"
He grinned. "Does that mean you've committed a theft, a kidnap, or just vice?"
"I think five counts of social-climbing in the first degree. Oh, thank you, Sherlock. I appreciate it. Oh, look, Mrs. Hudson's back with more beer. Give her a hand."
Sherlock pouted. "I'm the host."
"That's why you give her a hand, Sherlock. Let the guests enjoy the food and the booze, and you do what a host does and make that easy for them."
"Somehow I thought socializing and entertaining was supposed to be part of it, too," he growled.
"Not when it's—oof," Lestrade said, not prepared for her foot to come down on his.
"Later, when they're relaxed," Molly said, and watched as Sherlock dubiously went to help his landlady with her bags of beer and ale.
"Sonofa—what was that?" Lestrade hissed at her, looking at her like she'd grown antennae. Well, she did have antennae: her one concession to Halloween was a headband with fairy-feelers twiddling on top. But it wasn't the fairy-feelers he was staring at.
She shrugged. "He just wants to do it right. I'm helping."
His eyes narrowed, and the look he shot her reminded her he was a D.I. He probably interrogated people like her as warm-up scales in the morning, before he took on the serious criminals. "You're helping—and he's listening. What have you injected into him, Molly Hooper? Whatever it is, the street-value per ounce has to be way up there."
She reviewed the possible things she could say…none of which were really satisfying. At last she shrugged and said, "It's just the new normal. If you want to know more, wait till you can talk to Mrs. Hudson alone. She's got theories. Don't tell me anything she says, though. I'm afraid if I ever have a theory I'll jinx it, like the centipede thinking about how it walks."
With Sherlock being kept busy, the party was beginning to thaw, at least a little. John was avoiding talking to his former roommate any more than he had to, but everyone else had decided to play nice with Sherlock, so long as Sherlock played nice with them. It wasn't a great party, but it was at least not the Cold War Molly had really feared. Yes, Sherlock kept checking his laptop—but he was Sherlock, after all, and at least he got back up regularly and made an effort. She was relaxing, beginning to enjoy the music and the group conversation about the upcoming Avenger's movie—she, Mrs. Hudson and Mary Marston were all hot for Robert Downey Jr and Tom Hiddleston, while Lestrade's date was yearning for Chris Hemsworth, when Sherlock's phone rang.
"Yes, what? What? Hang on, I'm at a party—I can't hear you. You'll have to say that louder. Wha—" Sherlock's voice went from over-loud, as he tried to project over a classical piece he had playing, to sudden, stunned silence. Everyone looked at him, riveted as his face went from its usual intense focus to blank shock—and then ricocheted to anger in an instant. "What kind of joke is this? Who's calling? What? What? No. I don't understand. Who is this?" He turned to John, eyes bewildered, breaking from the phone to say, "He says he's a Dr. Lund, at the Royal Marsden ICU, John. Have you heard of him?"
John's brow furrowed. "Not my area, but—what's wrong?"
"He says…" Sherlock's voice went thin. "He says Mycroft's dying and he needs permission to extend treatment. Only it's…It can't be. No one dies of chickenpox, do they? It has to be a prank. It's Halloween." He sounded angry and edgy…and surprisingly young.
John's face went tense. "Give me the phone, Sherlock. Let me talk to him. Yes-yes, I know, just give me the phone." Grabbing it, he seated himself at Sherlock's laptop, trapped the phone between his shoulder and ear, and began typing and talking at the same time. "Hello, Dr. Lund? This is Dr. John Watson, a friend of Sherlock's. I think maybe you need me to act as translator for a few minutes…Sherlock's convinced this is someone's idea of a Halloween prank. You say you're attending Mycroft Holmes, at the Royal Marsden ICU? Yes. Yes. Just a moment…. Sherlock, take the phone and confirm you're you, and I'm me, and that I have permission to consult with Lund—no, Sherlock, you've got to give the poor bastard some kind of legal fig leaf to cover his ass before he can tell me anything."
As John bounced between Sherlock, the laptop, and the phone, Molly pulled out her own phone. Nigel? Nigel? Are you there?
Depends on what you mean by "there," Moll. In the immortal words of the sixties, I'm definitely where it's at, for sure. Hey, did I tell you I wore a sixties costume tonight?
Yeah, but I need you to do something for me. Can you get at the interhospital database?
Um…Yeah. I think so.
Ok. I need you to do a couple searches. First check if there's a Dr. Lund at the Royal Marsden—and see if anything pops, okay?
The wait seemed eternal, and meanwhile Sherlock was saying unnaturally calm, precise things on the phone in Sherlockish, rigid phrasing, as though his voice could cross every T and dot every i.
Yeah, Molly. Internist of some kind? Infectious diseases.
Okay. Now, I need you to break the rules, Nige. See if you can find out if the Royal's got a Mycroft Holmes in the ICU.
Moll, I can't do that.
I said, break the rules, Nige. This is important.
No, you don't get it. I can't. It's not the rules, or even that I don't have a high enough clearance to do it – I don't know how. I'm a med tech, not a hacker. And I'm drunk.
She was about to tell him she'd call and walk him through it when John's voice grabbed her attention, forcing it back to his own efforts.
"Bugger. Okay, okay, I follow. Adult onset varicella zoster, Oka variant strain, followed by pneumonia, and that one is definitely a resistant strain. What've you tried so far? Uh-huh. Uh-huh. Shit. Uh-huh. Yeah. Okay. I'll talk to him. Should we call back, or come straight over. Straight over? Ah. Talk on the way. I see. All right. We'll see you over there."
The man who handed Sherlock's phone back was, bone-deep, a doctor, a soldier, and a ranking officer. Tension sparked on him like St. Elmo's fire, but his attention was on Sherlock.
"It's not a joke. Mycroft's been in hospital for a week. He went in with adult onset chickenpox, contracted a hospital strain of pneumonia, and has been slipping downhill ever since. He went into a coma a half an hour ago, and you're his next of kin. He wouldn't let them contact you before this, but now you're the only person they've got to sign papers and make decisions…right up till the DNR cuts in and it's all back in Mycroft's hands. We're going over there so you can sign the paperwork…and because he may not hang on much longer."
"Chickenpox?" Sherlock said, shaking his head in frustrated disbelief. "He had chickenpox. We both did. Covered with it. He can't have chickenpox."
"Sherlock, they've tested for it…it's chickenpox. It's Oka strain, and that may be the problem: it slips past immunization, sometimes. But—have you been immunized?"
Sherlock was not using his "inside voice" any more. "John, please listen. I told you: I've had chickenpox. Of course I haven't been immunized."
"Then you're going to go in masked, until they're sure you're not going to get it either."
"But we had it."
"And Mycroft's infected. Sherlock, just shut up and get your coat. Mary and I will take you over."
"I'll meet you there," Molly murmured. "One more person to translate for Sherlock."
"Or translate Sherlock for them, poor things," Mrs. Hudson said. "You go on, now. I'll stay here and clean up the party. "
At the side of the room Molly could hear Greg and his date murmuring. Her voice, puzzled and frustrated, rose, asking, "But I don't understand. How could he not even know his brother was in hospital?"
"Shhh. Laurie, you've met Sherlock. All I can tell you is Mycroft is worse. I mean, I've only met him a few times, but I promise: Mycroft is worse. The big question is how his own doctor got clearance to know he was sick. I would have thought it would take a month to jump through the bureaucratic hoops."
The drive over in the taxi was cold and lonely. Molly wondered if she should have stayed with Mrs. Hudson, or gone home, the way she would have before Sherlock died and returned…or she wondered until the phone pinged.
Molly, this is crazy. John keeps talking like Mycroft is dying.
Sherlock, if he picked up a strain he wasn't immune to—adult onset chickenpox is serious, pneumonia is worse, and a resistant strain of pneumonia is really bad. John may be right.
But he can't be. He's Mycroft. The government won't LET him die.
Everyone dies, Sherlock.
It was a long time before he responded, and then he said only, Will you be over there?
Yes. Have John text me where they take you, and I'll meet you there.
I want John to be able to pay attention to Mycroft and the doctor.
Good choice.
I want you to pay attention to John. Someone's got to make sure he's not missing something.
He won't miss anything, Sherlock. But I'll listen and help you keep track.
How can he have chickenpox? We had chickenpox, Molly. Full up with it. Spots everywhere. We itched for a week. Mycroft put calomel on my back and made up riddles to keep me quiet, because Nurse was with Mummy.
Did she have it, too? Poor thing.
No. Father died the week before, and she was…upset. She wanted Nurse. Nurse sang her nursery songs, like when she was little.
I see. So…Mycroft took care of you?
When Nurse was busy. We went to stay with Aunt Freya for the first few days. Then came home. Mycroft took care of me.
I see.
He's strong. Mycroft's stong, Molly.
Molly had heard enough people say that over her years working in hospitals to know it really meant, "He'll live, won't he?" She said what she'd learned to say.
They'll do the best they can, Sherlock. I promise. They'll do the best they can.
Everybody dies. He said that, once. All lives end. All hearts are broken.
Yes. He's a smart man, Sherlock.
I know. Smarter than me. It's just sometimes I wish he weren't.