My thanks to the Home Team for help with Latin, grooming debates, hospital issues, and more. Yay-you-guys! You know who you are—and I do, too. My deep gratitude.
Molly sighed and rubbed her eyes, studying the results of Sherlock's varicella titers again. They weren't what she'd expected or hoped. After a few minutes she powered up her phone and typed in a text.
John? You free right now?
Free enough. What's wrong?
Nothing's wrong…I think. Can you get Mycroft's viral analysis? Bacterial analysis too, if you can.
Probably? Why?
She thought about it, and reluctantly decided that she wasn't ready to try to explain, yet—or to send her guesses in text. I'd rather not say, yet.
Are Sherlock's immunity tests done?
Yes. Tests are negative. Not immune.
Good thing we made him get the shot.
Good he wore the full monty* hazmat. Make him keep it till we know the shot took.
Understood.
She considered signing out—and decided it would be cowardice. If the answer to her next question was bad, trying to ignore it wouldn't make it better. How's Mycroft?
The response was quick and terse.
Shunt's helping. No other changes.
How's Sherlock?
Pulled in. Using everyone for dart practice.
Okay. Have to go. Tell Sherlock he's not immune.
You don't want to tell him?
She shuddered at the thought. Even now she wilted when Sherlock was at his worst. When he's using people for dart practice? He'll go mental. You do it.
Lucky me. D:
Get revenge on him for the past few years?
LOL! You're not quite as sweet as you seem.
Yes I am. I'm totally wet in person. It's just easier to be a nasty cow in text. Got to go. CU later. PLEASE, let me know what you learn about M's v&b analysis.
OK. Bye.
Molly turned off her phone, set it aside, and pulled out the results from Sherlock's varicella tests again. There was no sign of immunity—none. It could have been used as a benchmark standard for immunity-free.
Nigel stuck his head in her office door, looking very much the worse for wear. "Oi, Moll—you got any aspirin? I have such a head this morning, you wouldn't believe."
"I'd believe almost anything, Nige. Who was last-man-standing at the party last night?"
"Dunno. Wasn't me. And Kemper folded before I did. May have been Sheila from MRI. How'd Sherlock's party turn out? Anyone kill the git?"
"Bit of a cockup, actually. He got word his brother's in hospital over at the Royal Marsden. Put a bit of a dent in the evening. Remember? I texted you?"
"Oh, yeeeeah," he said, nodding, but his hangover-enhanced frown was saying, "Wait-what?"
"Never mind," Molly said, resigning herself to the fact that Nigel, like most of her coworkers who had attended the Halloween party, was going to be flying his brains at half-mast for most of the day. She snagged the handle of her big canvas tote and rummaged around until she found a bottle. She frowned at it. "Will you use naproxen?"
"Yeah, sure."
"Heads-up: take two and call me in the morning." She tossed the bottle to him, and was impressed when he managed to catch it. "Have you ever heard of anyone getting chickenpox but not showing any trace of immunity at all afterward?"
"Mooooooll, for the love-a God. I'm a med tech. I weigh lungs and guts and examine shite for signs of parasitic diseases. That's it. You want more? You're in a hospital—go ask a doctor." He looked down, already twisting the bottle top—only to stop cold. "Hey, these are girl-aspirin!"
"Your headache, your choice. It's what I have with me." She reached across her desk and pulled over the desk phone, punching in the extension quickly. "Sue? Yes. It's Molly Hooper, down in the mortuary. Is Dr. Stamford in? Down in the canteen? Thanks—no, I'll call back if I miss him there. Laters." She dug in her tote for her wallet and rose, saying, "Tag—you're it. Watch the lab: I'm going down to the canteen to try to catch Mike Stamford. Put the Feminax back in my bag when you're done with them."
"Yeah, okay," Nigel grumbled, then, as she scurried out the lab door, he shouted, "Hey, get me a bag of crisps while you're there!"Molly didn't even bother calling back.
Molly bought a coffee and an orange for herself, and a bag of wasabi crisps for Nigel, then slipped quietly into the dining area of the canteen. It didn't take her long to find Mike Stamford. He was a big man with a cheerful presence and no inclination to hide himself. He'd occupied a round table under windows looking out over the inner campus, and was drinking a cup of coffee and munching a cheese sandwich.
For all he was a familiar face and a nice man, Molly still felt a bit shy of him. Ordinary doctors she dealt with daily, and had done for years; from her first student nursing assignment on she'd run the gantlet of the profession. Mike, however, was one of St. Barts' teaching doctors, and according to gossip he was among the best. She'd been too intimidated to even ask him for a recommendation for fear he'd think she was trying to play "not what you know but who you know" games trying to get into St. Bart's. She cleared her throat, tentatively. "Mike?"
He looked up and smiled—genial, as always. "Molly! What are you doing out of your morgue? If I'd known you could be lured away I'd have invited you for coffee long since. " He studied her, and shook his head. "You're the first person from Kemper's group I've seen today who doesn't look hung over. Tired—but not done to a turn."
She gave a hesitant smile. "I didn't go to the same Halloween party they did. It makes a difference."
"What, you mean you didn't get pissed at the party and finish up with a Halloween pub-crawl?"
"I went to a private party and finished up with a Halloween hospital crawl." She took a breath. "You know Sherlock's back?"
Stamford suddenly looked far more serious—and not entirely happy. "Heard from John, yes." His voice left it an open question just what he'd heard from John, though to Molly's relief he did say, "It sounds like a bugger of a spot he was in…but… I don't know how he faked his death, but I can't say I appreciate what he did to John—or the reputation of St. Barts. And I've been twice as worried about the students. We lose someone to suicide every few years or so, and that sort of thing is contagious."
She really didn't want to go there. So far no one outside Sherlock's closest circle knew any of what she'd done, and she would rather it stayed that way. "Mike, Sherlock got a call last night. His brother's sick—he's in the ICU at the Royal Marsden. Adult onset varicella zoster, turned into pneumonia. They were treating it with antivirals and it was responding, but then he picked up a opportunistic resistant staph infection that kicked the pneumonia into overdrive. He may not make it."
Mike gave a sharp grunt, and swore. "Any hope?"
"Some. I texted with John about an hour ago. They've put in a pulmonary shunt and his breathing is improving. But he's in a coma and he's not in good shape. The thing is, it's a bit of a mystery how he contracted varicella in the first place. He doesn't work in the kind of place where it's all open-floor plan and you have to share germs with every kid the next cubicle-rat's kid goes to school with. And most people inoculate anyway. You hardly ever hear of a case of chickenpox. And on top of that, Sherlock swears he and Mycroft both had chickenpox as kids."
Mike shrugged. "Wrong diagnosis. Twenty-thirty years back we didn't have a vaccine yet, and chickenpox was still really common…common enough that a lot of the time if people knew it was going around and little Sean or Sheila came up with a rash or an itch they just figured their kids had got it, too. Like as not they got into a nettle-patch without realizing or something like that—nettles can raise a rash that would fool someone who already thought he knew what it was."
Molly couldn't imagine either Mycroft or Sherlock failing to realize they were in a nettle-patch, even when they were young and in the middle of a family crisis. She wondered how old they'd been. The way Sherlock had spoken of it, it had sounded as though he had been fairly young, but Mycroft was somewhere between six to ten years older than Sherlock, so nearly as she could tell. She wished she could talk to Mycroft and ask him what had happened….
Which took her right back to where it all started. No one could talk to Mycroft right now.
"Mike, there was something I wanted to ask you. You're not just a doctor—you're a teacher and a researcher, too. Have you ever heard of someone contracting chickenpox but not testing immune positive?"
"It's not common, but people do sometimes have a weak immune response."
"No. I'm not talking about a weak response. I mean have you ever heard of someone getting chickenpox but testing completely free of any kind of varicella antibodies? A completely negative titer?"
Mike's eyes slipped out of focus behind his glasses. He leaned back in his chair, wrapped his palms around his coffee cup, and made a soft humming noise as he thought about it. "Nnnnnnnnno. You don't mean someone with complete immune collapse or anything like that? No bubble-boys or the like?"
"No. Normal people living in the normal world getting normal colds and flu and scratches and scrapes and still normally healthy. Well—I mean they get normally sick and then get normally better. Just no immunity to chickenpox. None."
Mike pushed his glasses up his nose, hummed some more, drank the last of his coffee absently. At last he shook his head. "No. At least—I'm no Sherlock. I'm not going to swear there's no chance in the world it could happen. But all the ways I can see to get that result are so weird they just don't make sense, and probably wouldn't work anyway. You tell me—rumor says you want to be a doctor. What do you think?"
"I think if you have a clean titer, then you never had chickenpox. I think you're right, and someone made a misdiagnosis."
Mike nodded. "Yep. Does it matter?"
"I wish I knew. But I'm not Sherlock, either."
"That's a good thing. Sherlock would make a duff doctor. With a bit of time and a lot of work, you may make a very good one."
Even under the circumstances Molly felt cheered. "You mean it?"
"I mean it. You need to gain some confidence, but you've always had great instincts and a good mind, and you've come a long way in the past few years."
She risked a grin. "Maybe I should have asked you for a recommendation letter after all."
"Maybe you should have. But not for St. Barts." He pushed himself away from the table and rose, picking up his cup and plate, and grinning mischievously. "Conflict of interest. I'm on the Admissions Committee, here." And with that he was gone, toddling away through the canteen like a cheerful, chubby nursery toy.
The rest of the work day was slow, made even slower as fatigue finally caught up with her. By three she was ready to crawl the burning desert for a cup of tea. By four she'd started wondering whether sticking her finger in a light socket might be enough to jolt her into alertness. She and Nigel could have run a contest to see which of them sounded more fagged out. When five came she grabbed her tote, closed up the morgue, and raced home, taking just enough time to feed Toby, make a cup of instant noodles, and change into pajamas. She was asleep by eight, and she stayed asleep until six the next morning, rising feeling much better. As she drank her coffee and ate a yogurt for breakfast she texted John.
Morning. Any news?
Mycroft's not any better, but he hasn't crumped, either. Sherlock's in his mind palace. The rest of us are stuck on the front line,s facing down MI5 and MI6 under the command of Beemish. Afghanistan was safer. Please bring reinforcements…and a decent cup of hot coffee. And some sausage rolls. Sherlock may not care if he never eats again, but I'm a soldier and I march on my stomach.
Aww. ;_; I'll be by in half an hour. Can't stay long—got work. But I'll do what I can. Want muffins, too?
I want to marry you and have your babies. 3 3 3
LOL! Mary will be surprised to hear it. Reinforcements—will Mrs. Hudson do? I can't think of anyone else who doesn't have work.
I'll take what I can get. I can weep on her shoulder and she'll be kind.
Just remember, she's not your housekeeper. XD Laters.
Molly dressed and arranged for Mrs. Hudson to pick her up at the local café. By the time the cab pulled up she had three boxes filled with sausage rolls and hard boiled eggs, oranges and apples, and pastries, and a gallon carton of fresh-brewed café Americano. She practically fell into the back seat, with her load and her tote weighing her down.
"What's all that, then?" Mrs. Hudson asked, looking at the heap.
"Sherlock's in his mind palace and John's starving in a desert of hospital grub. He says he wants to marry me and have my babies. Best deal anyone's offered me in years."
"Tell me about it. At my age I'd be lucky to have good dreams if it weren't for the internet. Isn't technology wonderful?"
Molly was afraid to ask. There were things mankind—or at least Molly—was not meant to know, and Mrs. Hudson's online solution to the senior dating drought was among them.
The two split the load between them once they were at the Royal Marsden. They went up the elevators and down the corridor to the waiting room for the ICY, where they were greeted by a stubble-cheeked, hollow-eyed John, who descended on them like a one-man impersonation of a ravening wolf pack.
"I love you, I love you, I love you. My fiancé loves you. My future offspring love you. Oh, God. You got Eccles cakes. You are a goddess—" he broke off and glared blearily at one of the MI5/6 battalion, who approached the boxes with a hopeful look in his eye. "Mine, you tosser. Back off."
The agent considered, looked forlornly at the boxes brimming with food, looked back at John, and apparently decided he wasn't certain enough of surviving the attempt. He backed off, trying to look casual.
"My goodness, John, you look a sight," Mrs. Hudson said, looking as much intrigued by the stubble and barely restrained violence as she did appalled. "How long is it since you ate last?"
"I'm not sure. I think the Blitz. Churchill was saying something about blood, sweat, and tears, and there was rationing and cabbage loaf."
"War is hell," Molly agreed, consolingly. She glanced around the waiting room. Beemish wasn't in evidence, but his men and women were everywhere, perched uneasily on waiting room chairs and benches or propping up corridor walls. They were in street-wear, which meant they looked like bankers who were licensed to kill.
Sherlock stood at the end of the waiting room, silhouetted against a plate glass window. Even from behind he looked too good to be real, she thought, a bit sadly. Some things in life just were not fair. Sherlock Holmes was one of them. Brains, wit, cheekbones, and a really great coat—and as near as she could tell he wasn't aware of the evolutionary value of any of it. No matter how far she'd come from her former infatuation, she still thought he was a wonder. Unfortunately he was a wonder who certainly wasn't spending his Darwinian capital on her.
"How long's he been like that?" she asked John, with a quick cock of her head at the stark, still figure, to underline her meaning.
"Hours," John said through a spray of Eccles cake crumbs.
"When's he going to come out of it?"
"Now," Sherlock said, with a dramatic, sweeping turn, making everyone in the room jump. "Where is Dr. Lund?"
John sighed. "Hang on. I'll text him."
"Ask him where Mycroft's things are."
While John tapped away at the phone, Sherlock casually grabbed the last Eccles cake and bit into it.
"He says he'll have an orderly bring them to you. And you stole my Eccles cake."
"You've already eaten two, John."
John glowered at him, then gave up with a sigh. "All right, all right. Fine. 'How ever did you know that, Sherlock! That's amazing!'"
"You know my method. It's founded on the observation of trifles—or in this case, the observation of Eccles cakes. Consider: The pastries Molly has bought are all in groups of three: three bran muffins, three fairy cakes, three cheese Danish…but only this one last Eccles cake! Further, I know your fondness for Eccles cakes, and that you are capable of eating one Eccles cake per five minutes while drinking coffee and conversing at table. I am also aware that you shed cake crumbs at a rate of one-quarter teaspoon per cake, and are currently wearing a cumulative half-teaspoon by my visual estimate. What one man can ingest, John, another man can discover. Ah, Mycroft's things!" He pounced at the approaching orderly, swept the lidded institutional cardboard storage crate from his hands, popped the top, tossed it aside, and immediately began rifling through the contents.
"Tchk. How many silk ties do you own, Mycroft? And IDs: an embarrassment of riches there, I should think. Shoes—Foster and Son. Suit—Gleves and Hawkes, and you'd have a few things to say if you knew it wasn't properly hung. Shirt—same. T. ,Four Quartets: in a pensive mood before coming in? Or has Eliot become habit by now?" He fluttered through the pages of a small, pocket-sized volume with apparent familiarity, stopping to read, "'A people without history is not redeemed from time, for history is a pattern of timeless moments.' Well, I suppose even poets can get some things right. But where is it…not here, not there. Where is the ring, my precious? We wants it, we do…"
"I knew you shouldn't have gone on that case in New Zealand," John grumbled. "And with that movie on the flight. It got to you. Next thing you know, you'll start thinking dragonish thoughts and turn into Fafnir."
"Smaug," Molly murmured. "You've got the wrong Ring cycle."
"But where is it?" Sherlock muttered, ignoring both of them. He looked sharply at the orderly. "A ring. Plain gold. Heavy weight. Size ten, engraved with the words 'Esse Vigilo!' on the inner surface. Clean, slightly worn. Where is it?"
The orderly backed up, looking panicked. "I don't know. I don't have it." His voice was shrill. "I'm no thief!"
Around him the MI5/6 brigade was coming alive and taking notice. One of them appeared to be talking into an inconspicuous over-ear headset.
"Sherlock, heads-up," Molly murmured.
"Where is the ring?" Sherlock seemed almost ready to roar.
The orderly, frantic, searched the room, found the box lid, and darted toward it. He flipped it and shoved it toward Sherlock."Here-here-here…the inventory. See—nothing listed as going to the safe, either. And your brother signed off on it. No ring, I tell you—there can't be a ring. I didn't touch anything!"
Sherlock scanned down the list at high speed…and stopped, suddenly still and calm. "Oh. Oh, Mycroft, you devious…" He looked up, eyes gazing into unseen infinity. He handed box and lid back to the orderly without even looking, trusting the man to take them rather than let them fall. "John—we're going to the Palace."
"What?" John gaped. "Now?"
"Now! John, tell Lund to text me if Mycroft's condition changes." He strode firmly toward the bank of elevators at the far end of the corridor, then swerved and doubled back. With one smooth move he shanghaied the coffee carton out of Molly's grip—then, to her stunned amazement, he curved his hand around the nape of her neck and dropped one kiss on the top of her head. She felt the grit of stubble on her forehead, and realized for the first time that he was as unkempt as his friend. "You are a jewel among women, Molly Hooper. John—get the sausage rolls! We're off!"
She was so rattled that he and John were halfway down the corridor before she remembered John wouldn't have had a chance to tell him about the varicella titer—and that she hadn't had a chance to talk to him about the impossibility of his having ever had chickenpox.
"Wait—Sherlock!" she called, trying to catch up. "Sherlock, hang on—I need to tell you something. Sherlock? Sherlock!?"
He wasn't listening. She was too quiet—too much mousey Molly.
Inside, something rose up and growled, and whatever it was, it was a pure Brixton beast. She stopped square in the middle of the corridor, and a roar rise up from her belly.
"Oi! Holmes! Not one more step, y' daft chancer!"
The entire world seemed to slide to a slow stop, as Sherlock and John staggered and turned and stared, and Molly stood frozen where she was, stunned at the pure sound and command that had risen up out of her.
Somewhere behind her Mrs. Hudson was laughing.
"Molly?" It had to be Sherlock speaking—but his voice sounded uncharacteristically uncertain.
She drew in a deep breath and set her jaw. "Yes. Well. Your titer—you're not immune. Never were.. And we need to talk about that sometime. Text me when you're free. It's important. And…don't you dare go in to see Mycroft unprotected until you test immune. Do you understand?"
He nodded, slightly wild-eyed. "Yes."
She felt a giggle rising up, and couldn't quite stifle it. Her hands rose and covered her burning cheeks…but the laughter made her brave. "Yes-what, ?"
He stared at her until John elbowed him and murmured under his breath, "You're supposed to say, 'Yes, ma'am.'"
Sherlock's eyebrows shot up, his face went blank—and then, suddenly, he was simply, absolutely amused. Still holding the carton of coffee under one arm, he swept a deep, flourishing bow, waving an imaginary hat in his other hand. Rising, he met her eyes. "Yes, Molly Hooper, ma'am."
* "Full Monty Hazmat." Molly is saying it's a good thing John and the hospital refused to let Sherlock go in to see Mycroft without wearing full quarantine gear, because he's not immune to chickenpox after all. I do hope my Brit-speak is good enough to have gotten the idiomatic use of "full monty" right.