Molly couldn't believe it. The overgrown lummox had apparently suffered a breakdown or something. She tried to think of any time she'd ever seen Sherlock dither…or babble. Or run away. Even after years of knowing him she couldn't think of a single example. The closest she could come was that one Christmas Party, when for a short, shattering second she'd seen Sherlock shamed—and this hadn't really been like that at all, other than the odd sense that his defenses had been shattered and ground to dust.
But she was damned if she knew why. The fight and the mystery and the hunt were the sort of thing that usually had Sherlock baying with excitement like a rugger fan when his team looked likely to score a goal.
She leaned down, aching, trying to stretch strain and bruise out of her back and shoulders. With the adrenaline wearing off her aches and weariness were trying to take over. She could hear the nurses and agents working to put new guards in place.
Under Mycroft's bed, almost hidden his shadow, she saw something. She knelt and fished cautiously, trained by long experience not to risk cuts or stabs in a medical environment. When her fingers found something solid she flicked it gingerly out into the light, then picked it up from the linoleum floor, frowning.
This must be what the guard had dropped when he panicked. She studied it. It was a fine gauge 33 Stubs insulin hypodermic, pre-loaded, with a plastic cap over the tip. Instinctively she slipped it into her open tote, which lay by the wall of the room. The guard had betrayed Mycroft and tried to flee when Sherlock came by and that nurse shouted. She knew, as she'd known then, that something was wrong…deeply wrong. She also knew with cold certainty that Sherlock wouldn't want her handing the evidence over to anyone he hadn't cleared. Not after this.
A nurse looked in the open door. "Miss Hooper?"
"Yes?"
"There are some officers…? People?" She apparently pondered the correct term, and shifted reluctantly back. "Officers—there are some officers here who want to speak with you. Can they come in?"
Molly glanced over at Mycroft. He was still unconscious but not, thank God, dosed with whatever the guard had intended to slip him. "No. I think no one until Mr. Holmes' brother, Sherlock, has cleared it. Tell them I'll be out in a moment." The nurse nodded; her eyes were troubled.
Molly'd been a ward nurse long enough to sympathize entirely. Life at the Royal Marsden must be getting really strange for those nurses and doctors who had any dealings with Mycroft at all. New personnel everywhere, most of them set in place to guard not to pull their weight in ward tasks. Disruptions. Extra precautions. It couldn't be much fun even without events like tonight's. She smiled at the nurse, pitching her voice softly, radiating the kind of "don't mind me, I'm harmless" vibe that had stood her in good stead as a student nurse, and for years afterward. "I'm a nurse, too. I'm the senior tech at the morgue at St. Barts, now, but I was a ward nurse here when I first graduated from Florence Nightengale. If you'd bring by supplies, I can take care of Mr. Holmes for you, once the officers are done with me. Sherlock's already approved me being with his brother." She allowed herself a soft, mothery-dithery Mrs. Hudson-ish chuckle. "Safe as houses, I am. Check with the agents, but I can at least save you some work there."
The nurse brightened. "That would help ever so! Sister Johansen was supposed to be here, but she's disappeared, and Sister Chamkhani's out with flu…no use to us with your man there in intensive."
It took almost half an hour to satisfy the MI5 agent who questioned her. She kept it as simple as she could, and didn't mention the hypodermic. It frightened her that she didn't know who to trust. She wanted Sherlock there to give her a hint—but he was still missing when they finished up. She assured the agent she'd get back in touch if she thought of anything else, then returned to Mycroft's room. A cart loaded with fresh supplies had been left just outside the door.
She rolled it in, closed the door, then carefully examined the supplies for tampering. Once she felt reasonably confident the materials were safe, she began, dropping back into a familiar ritual. Bedridden patients in ICU had to be carefully managed, for fear of sores, site infections, blocked catheters, and more. She snapped on gloves and began, her mind pulling into an impersonal professional zone. When Sherlock did return she was too involved to really care.
She worked her way from Mycroft's head to his toes, leaving nothing untended, nothing unclean, nothing damp or likely to fester. She cleaned the pox sores, and dabbed them with antiseptic and a mild moisturizer to help them heal without scarring. She replaced medical tape stabilizing the various tubes and needles, replaced an IV tap that looked suspiciously gummy. Once she was sure she'd met his medical needs she took a moment to comb his thinning hair neatly, then pulled up a chair and simply held one of his hands.
"He's not conscious," Sherlock husked. His already deep voice was ragged and uncertain. He smelled of tobacco smoke. She might have scolded under other circumstances. The scent was faint, though, and unlikely to harm Mycroft—and Sherlock had a cigarette or two coming to him, what with one thing or another.
"That doesn't mean he doesn't know we're here," she said. "They've done studies on recovery rates and complications based on what's said and done around unconscious patients. It matters." She stroked the back of Mycroft's hand.
"He won't appreciate that, you know. He's not fond of touchy-feely." Sherlock tweedled his fingers in the air as though conjuring up some manic groper determined to pat and pinch and paw at innocent invalids.
"Then he can wake up and tell me so," she said, amused. It wasn't like either Holmes brother could be considered touchy-feely, after all. "I have something to show you when we leave. Something from before the attack."
When she glanced over she could almost see neurons firing. He nodded. "Yes."
"I was wondering. I'm not really happy with what happened here, tonight. Do you think you could call in some favors and have Inspector Lestrade's lab people do some some testing for us? I have something that worries me."
"I'd rather you did any testing."
"I've got another interview tomorrow, and I'm already behind on work."
"Cancel the interview and I'll have Uncle William explain to your supervisors."
"No."
He frowned, then—a thunderous glare she knew only too well. Part of her flinched. "No?"
"No." She took a deep breath, keeping her eyes on Mycroft's face. "This needs to be done reliably and with all the paperwork and tracking. We can't fudge this, Sherlock…it's too important, and there are too many people already playing silly buggers with the record keeping. And I need to get on with my life. I can find time to come over after work, and I'm glad to. But I can't start skipping work, or passing up interviews."
"Decided you'd rather be the lion, not the mouse, Molly Hooper?"
"Decided even a mouse can roar, once in awhile."
"You were no kind of mouse tonight. I didn't know whether to rescue you or the guard." He didn't sound entirely happy about it, either. "Don't do that, again, Molly. It's dangerous."
"So's what you do. So's what I do, when it comes to that—mucking around inside dead bodies has its own risks."
"It's different."
She set her jaw. "No, it's not. I don't see you running around telling John to keep out of danger."
He made a noise that was as much huff as mumble.
"Well you don't," Molly insisted.
"He's a soldier."
"Was a soldier."
"He's got the training." Before she could continue, he took a restless turn around the hospital room, growling, "Would you please not argue, Miss Hooper?"
"So I'm 'Miss Hooper' now?" she said, truly amused. She'd been afraid of his temper for so long—she could hardly believe that now she'd actually risk baiting him. They were changing. She wasn't sure how. Was she less in love—no longer feeling the waves of adoration and embarrassment and need she'd once felt? Or were they closer now than they'd ever been, beginning to talk between themselves as friends and peers for the first time? She smiled to herself and stroked the back of Mycroft's hand again, skillfully avoiding jarring the inserted needles. "Sherlock, don't fuss. I won't go looking for guards to tackle, if you don't go all fussbudget at me if I tackle the ones that come my way."
"Fussbudget?" he almost squalled, then cut the volume back. "I do not 'fussbudget.' Which is a noun, not a verb, I'll have you know."
"Horrors. I verbed a noun. The world shall end." She risked a glance over her shoulder, smiling to see him leaning with shoulders propped against the far wall, arms crossed, for all the world like a sulky boy outside the Headmaster's office.
He scowled—then, as he met her eye, the scowl broke up, and almost turned to a smile, before he forced it down again.
She almost didn't realize she'd tightened her hold on Mycroft's hand, until he flinched. Her attention shot back to him. "Sherlock…"
"What?"
"His pain reflex. I jarred his IV by mistake and he registered it." She studied the pale, splotched face. "I can't tell if there are any REM patterns, yet. But—I think he's beginning to come back." She caressed the hand in hers…then smiled, as slim fingers weakly curved around hers.
"He's reacting." Sherlock had come close. He peered over her head, one hand gripping her shoulder much too tight.
"It's likely only reflex right now," she said, softly. "Like touching the inside of a baby's palm."
"But it's more than we've seen before."
"Yes. We'll make sure the nurses record that when we go. Dr. Lund will be pleased."
"We're not going to stay?"
She sighed. "No, Sherlock. He's improving. We can't rush that. What we're going to do is go home." She stood, tucked Mycroft's hand back at his side, then stepped away, gathering her tote and slipping from the room, determined to give Sherlock a few moments with his brother. She flagged the nurse who'd brought the supplies and took the time to update her, making sure their observations were noted on Mycroft's records.
When Sherlock came out, she waited for him to reach her, then said, "I still have something to give you."
He nodded almost invisibly. "Yes. Walk to Tom's Kitchen and talk there?"
"No. Cab to the lab at Bart's."
"So secretive, Molly?"
She considered the repercussions of handing Sherlock a hypodermic in a public place and being noticed. "I think you'll agree with me."
They were silent on the trip down the elevator, and as quiet in the cab. At first Molly found it uncomfortable, raising twitchy memories of the months and years of working with him in perpetual embarrassment, hoping to be noticed, and dreading it, too. After a bit, though, she relaxed. Things had changed. She no longer felt as invisible as she once had—nor as painfully exposed when things went wrong between them, either. As a result she could bear the silence in comfort. She was no less aware of them than she'd ever been, she thought—but now it was different. More like sharing a cab with a feral cat that had started to trust. She noted ever shift, every restless uneasiness, and found herself smiling a little.
Had he been as nervous as she had been back before his death? No. She couldn't believe that. But this entire situation with Mycroft had him on edge, strung tight, and she could read it in him, even in the dark, surrounded by the hum and honk of London traffic.
They walked together into St. Barts, matching their paces as best a short woman and a tall man could. Molly fished in her tote and found the lab keys, opened the door, flicked on the light without even looking, and scurried to one of the central lab tables. She tipped the entire tote out, pawing rapidly until she found the hypodermic, which she offered him without comment.
Sherlock came to full alert. "My-my, Molly. Where did you find this?"
"It's what the guard dropped right before he panicked and ran. It was under Mycroft's bed."
"And you didn't hand it in to the nurses or to MI5? Molly-Mouse is becoming quite the little rebel! I see I've been a bad influence on you."
"I don't trust them," she said, bluntly, refusing to be teased. "If a guard was turned, there could be more."
"A guard and a nurse," he said, absently. "The one who screamed and set you man running." He turned the slim hypo over and over, frowning at it. "Nothing to identify it. Can you tell me anything?"
"It's an insulin hypo, finest Stub's grade—as thin as they come. Short needle length. Smallest volume, too: 1ml. Preloaded. No marker to say what's in it."
"You think he was going to inject Mycroft with this?"
"No. I think he was going to inject it into the IV, close to the needle and tape, where a bit of seep happens anyway. With a needle this fine there's often no obvious sign of tampering anyway: the tube seals itself when the needle is withdrawn."
"Any ideas what's in it?"
She shook her head. "Too many ideas, would be more like it."
"So this is what you want tested?"
"Yes. And it's got to be a pro lab—and not my lab. Go through Greg Lestrade. Or send it to one of the other hospitals-just be sure you preserve the chain of evidence. Don't' leave any holes or gaps. Make it official, but don't let Mr. Beemish's people work on it."
He arched his brows. "I do know how this is done, Molly."
"You know how it's done on your side—even if you and John do seem to spend as much time playing silly buggers with evidence as anything. I know how the hospital makes sure chains of evidence are intact. It's not the same thing."
He studied her, a frown growing in his eyes—and for the first time in weeks she felt herself flush under his gaze.
"Were you always so fierce? Tackling spies, taking charge of things? Scolding me?" He snorted, then. "I don't think so. I could hardly have failed to notice." He set the hypo gently on the table, and began a slow, contemplative pace around her, studying her as if she were an unusual crime scene.
She shivered, and frowned at him. "Stop it, Sherlock. I'm not a blood stain or a paint chip. I'm not a clue." As he tried to circle her, she pivoted, trying to keep him in front of her.
"I don't treat you like a sample or a chip!" he protested, still pacing.
"Yes. Yes, you do."
"Molly, do hold still. You're being difficult."
"I'm being human." He kept walking, and she was feeling dizzy. "I don't want you peering at me like that."
"I would have said otherwise, a few years ago," he said, seeming almost not to notice his own comment. "Back then it was new hair, new dress, new lipstick… What's changed?" The worst part was he sounded curious—but only curious. He was being "Sherlock" at his strange and alien best.
She clenched her teeth. "I grew out of it, all right? Please stop walking around me. You're making me giddy." She veered away from him, going to lean on the lab table, trying to force her stomach to settle. "I'm sorry. I get carsick, too, sometimes."
"Poor coordination between the eye and the inner ear," he said, standing where she'd left him.
"Probably. But it doesn't take many spins around to make me feel bad." She collected the hypo from the table top. "I'll put this in the sample refrigerator. You can have one of Greg's people pick it up tomorrow. Give me a ring so I know who's coming, and don't send them over between eleven and two."
"Your interview, then, is it?"
"Second at Cameron."
"The forensic program?"
"Right."
"How many more interviews?"
"Hard to say, isn't it? More is better. As long as they're still talking to me, there's hope." She slipped a band of tape around the hypo, labeled it with the date and her name, then crossed the room, putting the little tube out of sight where the other lab staff wouldn't easily find it. She crossed back and began piling her possessions back in her tote: Kindle, Feminax bottle, leggings and tank for the gym, wallet, discreet pack of tampons, hair brush, spare hair ties, a pair of gloves…
"No wonder you need such a large bag."
She darted a look at him and realized he was still where he'd been when she pulled away from him, standing almost frozen in place, hands clasped behind his back. He had startlingly good posture: he seemed almost to hang from a string at the top of his head. She risked a smile. "If Batman were a woman he wouldn't need a utility belt—he'd have a tote."
Humor flashed. "I didn't see a Bat-arang anywhere in that."
"I shoot hair ties, instead. Always prepared."
The two struggled to keep straight faces, then dissolved into giggles. When they recovered, he met her eyes. He looked confused—as confused as she'd ever seen him. Between mysteries, research, and his own social failures, she'd seen him look confused more often than he'd probably wish to know. "You…" His voice faded, hesitant.
"Yes?"
"You've become as valuable to me as John Watson." Every inflection made it clear he found that as peculiar a thing to be saying as "I have accidentally swallowed the alligator," or "Please don't let the ocean out, it's not been fed yet."
She nearly laughed. For so long she'd imagined scenes straight out of romances. Sherlock Holmes would swear he loved her, and her only. That he couldn't live without her. That he dreamed of her. That she looked beautiful in a dress, or that her hair shone in the sunlight. He'd compare her to jewels, or flowers, or legendary beauties. Hell, she thought, I'd have settled for "you look nice today—want to snog?"
If she'd been in love with Sherlock, though, and not just the idea of Sherlock, she'd have known—only Sherlock could say he'd started to love her, at least a little, by comparing her to John Watson—and only Sherlock could look so puzzled and unaware of what he actually meant.
It wasn't what she'd dreamed of. She frankly wasn't sure what it could become. With her luck it meant that, like John, he'd drag her from pillar to post, insult her without a passing thought, experiment on her when it suited his needs, and let her go years thinking him dead. But it was better than an imaginary relationship with a fictional Sherlock.
She smiled, and nodded. "Yeah. I think that means we're friends."
He blinked. "I don't have friends."
She ambled toward the door of the lab, grinning to herself, tote slung casually over her shoulder. "Yeah, you do."
"Only John—and he's mad at me now."
"Which is why he busted his bum to help you with Mycroft. Give it a rest, Sherlock. You've got friends. You just see—but don't observe."
They laughed all the way out to the turn-around, where Molly caught a cab home.
Sherlock, however, walked back to 221B Baker Street. It was a long walk—and he still hadn't figured out what he thought or felt by the time he arrived.