This chapter. Aieee! I like it-but it's also giving me sass and backtalk. I have a few things to say about it.
1. Don't panic. It's still Sherlolly.
2. Don't panic. I'm not gonna abuse Lestrade.
3. Don't panic. It's actually going somewhere. It's just taking the scenic route with educational field trips along the way.
4. Don't panic. Sherlock's going to come 'round right. He's just having Protagonist's Luck right now.
Molly came back to the lab from her interview bubbling with optimism. She was pretty sure she'd interviewed well, but, better still, she'd been introduced to a Doctor Francesca Bollud, one of the best forensic researchers in the country, and a specialist in toxicology. The opportunity had been too perfect to pass up, and she'd spent almost an hour of her time discussing a possible ID for the contents of the syringe she'd found the day before. It had thrilled her to learn her hunch was not only possible, but quite a practical choice under the circumstances.
And, she thought, it was a double win. First, she was actually pretty proud of herself for thinking of it and having at least formed a strong hypothesis. It was good, practical forensic thinking. Second, the folks at Cameron might not be impressed—but on the other hand, they might be quite impressed.
On coming back she took the time to search for and print out a set of papers Dr. Bollud had recommended, and then write up notes for Sherlock to review. By the time she was done, there were about two hours left before she intended to leave for the night. She was just getting ready to leave her office and go to the main lab when her mobile phone chimed for an incoming text message. Slipping it out of her purse, she glanced at the screen, and felt a flutter of embarrassment when she saw it was Greg Lestrade.
Molly—Greg here. You got a minute?
She considered letting it go, but that didn't seem fair. It wasn't Greg's fault Sherlock had put them both on the spot the way he had. And she liked Greg Lestrade.
Yes. I'm back at the lab.
How'd the interview go?
Don't know. I was a bit wired.
No wonder. Damn Sherlock.
He was just being himself. No big. I'm used to him by now. XD
You sure? John and I want you to know—we'll kick him arse over tit if you want us to.
She gave a snort of laughter. She wasn't sure who'd win that sort of fight: Lestrade was a trained officer, John was Army to the core, but Sherlock could be insanely wily. But it was sweet of them to offer. She didn't think she could recall a time when anyone wanted to watch over her. As a result of years on her own, though, she could take care of herself. Best not to get them started with the Big Guy Protection thing. And, really, Sherlock had been being sweet, too—in his own way.
No. This time I think he really wanted to help. Not his usual show-off stuff.
Yeah. Um, about that…
?
Just because Sherlock thought of it doesn't mean it's a bad idea. You want to go out tonight?
She had to read that several times before she was sure she wasn't somehow confused about something. Even then—
You mean it?
Yeah.
This isn't some kind of big-brother, let's be nice to poor wet Molly thing you and John dreamed up?
No. I mean it. Dinner. Movie. You know—a date.
She shivered a little. The thought of Greg Lestrade as a date? Oh, my. And to think she'd been half-wishing he hadn't found a new girl just a few days ago. Wow! Um—Chinese? Italian?
Chinese, Italian, curry, chop house, fish and chips—your pick. I'm easy.
Oh? I can't say I'd noticed. XD
Try me later, you'll see.
Are you flirting with me?
Trying damned hard.
Her heart gave a giant wump-bump, and she giggled a bit frantically…then decided she'd better be honest fast, or she'd be in the same kind of mess she'd been in with Sherlock, before.
I'm not very good at flirting, Greg. I get all stupid and say dumb things.
You know what? That may bug Mr. Genius, but most of us don't give a damn. Put your foot in your mouth. I like you anyway.
Her world seemed to tumble around her. Was it really that easy? Could it possibly be this simple? He liked her, he didn't mind that she was a muddled mess sometimes—and he knew her, after all these years, even if not well. He couldn't be unaware of just how awkward she could be.
He'd said he liked her. And he was flirting with her. On purpose.
Molly? You still there?
Yeah. Um…trying to think through the blush. It slows me down a bit.
Oof. That's pretty sexy. Pretty Molly, all pink and nervous.
Oh, stop it! I won't be able to type at all.
Do you really want me to stop? I don't want to make you feel weird.
What was she supposed to say to that?
What did she want to say to that?
Maybe what she really needed to know what who she wanted to be…and who she wanted to become. She really liked who she'd been turning into lately: applying to med school, standing up to Sherlock without wrecking their friendship, fighting that horrible guard, finding the hypodermic. What would the "new normal" Molly do?
She'd tell the truth, and go on from there.
I don't know the answer to that. I really don't. But I'm willing to try to figure it out if you are. Dinner sounds great. Movie, too. Come on over to the lab after work and we'll talk about it.
Great! I'm off at 5:00, but I can cut out a bit earlier if you like.
I'm here till at least 6:00—I'm trying to make up for time lost to the interview and the stuff with you guys this morning. So come over when you can, I'll be here.
Ok. See you.
You, too.
When the phone didn't spool up any more messages, she went into a predictable panic. She was dreadful at dates. She wasn't dressed for it. She never knew what to say. Her only small talk was body parts and tissue analysis… Oh, wait. Greg's small talk would be body parts and crime scene analysis.
Obviously they were a match made in heaven. Or in Sherlock's meddling mind.
She giggled again, only to have Nigel hear her and call in, "'What's up, Moll? Good LOLcat?"
"No."
"XKCD?"
"No."
"Onion article?"
"No."
There was silence, and then the creak of a rolling lab stool. Nigel, scooting backward like a squid, careened and caromed down the aisle to Molly's office door and peered in, lying nearly on his back with the seat support pushed almost horizontal. He had glasses…nice, round mad scientist glasses and a mop of ginger frizzle hair. It made his various comic expressions all the more comic. He peered at her, owlishly. "Okay. Confess. You got drunk on the way back from the interview."
"No, Nige."
"Not even a little tiny one-pub pub-crawl?"
"No, Nige! Good God!"
He spun the stool, rose, performed a complex flip that turned the stool back-to-front, and sat again, this time backwards in the seat with his elbows on the backrest. "You're up to something, my little Molecule. I can see it by the gleam in your eye. Tell Uncle Nigel."
"You're younger than me."
"But wise in the ways of the world."
She sputtered. "Nige, your areas of expertise are where to get the best chips within ten minutes walk of St. Barts, perfect recall of every Terry Pratchett novel ever written, including footnotes, and the complete life history of Amelia Pond, the Girl Who Waited. Oh, and you learned how to tie a bow tie because 'cosplay' and 'bow ties are cool.' I don't think any of that gives you insight into my private life."
"Whoo-hooo! 'Private life!' New territory! Let me guess—that guy Sherl tried to set you up with this morning decided it wasn't a half-bad idea? Oh, my God, your face! I was right! I don't believe it! I was right! Molly-m'Golly has a date with Mr. Hunky Cop!" He spun the stool around squealing "Eeeeeeeee!" like a fan girl at a Star Trek opening. He smacked his trainers on the lino, bringing his wild spin to a sudden stop. "When's the date?"
"Tonight! He's meeting me here after he gets off work."
"Eeeeee! I can't wait. I'll make fresh coffee and dig up a tube of biscuits so we can entertain properly."
"You'll disappear…or I'll tell Sherlock you want him to match-make for you, too."
"Well, hell, yeah. I mean, success on the first time out of the gate? He can yenta for me any day."
"Do you have any idea how often you convince me that you're proof Darwin was wrong?"
He blew her an affectionate kiss. "I knew you loved me. Seriously—if you want me to disappear when Mr. Hunky Cop shows up….well…"
"That's DI Hunky Cop to you, Nige. And, yeah, I'd really rather not have an audience while he and I figure out if we want korma, spaghetti and meatballs, or what."
"Hix Oyster and Chop, over on Greenhill Rents. Plenty of choices, a lot of them good whether your man's a foody or a meat-potato-two-veg guy. Price is a bit of a yip, but not an oh-my-God. Nice enough to feel like you're dating, not scarfing student stodge."
"Whoa—good idea, Nige! Maybe I'm wrong. Maybe Darwin didn't mess up. That's a survival skill if I ever saw one. Now all I have to do is figure out what to wear, and how to change before he gets here."
"D'oh. No, you don't. You're in your interview suit, Moll. Nice hair. Nice outfit. Any nicer and you'd scare him off, 'specially since he's going to be coming over straight off work himself."
Molly stopped, and looked down. "Yeah! Wow! Yeah, I am!" She gave an amused little bounce, grinning. "That means all I have to do is redo my hair!"
Nige rolled his eyes. "Wrong, wrong, wrong. It's at that nice leaky point with whispy bits ladies work hours to fake. Leave it. Grab your purse and your DI and live a little."
"Are you sure you're straight? Because if you're not straight I know some really nice guys I can try to set you up with."
"Nah, I'm just a geek. It's a sexuality in its own right." He grinned. "We're hero-sexuals."
"What, you do it in phone booths?"
"No, blue police call boxes."
"Riiiiiiight." She laughed, and laughed—not because it was funny, but because Nigel was nice and she didn't need to worry about dressing up, and Lestrade was coming over to take her out to dinner. She and Nigel decided it was such a good afternoon that they lined up a play list of big-voice female vocalists like Emelie Sande, Adele, and Rihana on Nigel's computer. Soon enough they were doing all the clean-up, close-down, lock-up protocols while singing their lungs out, trying to out-Adele Adele. Nigel wasn't half bad. As they finished up the computer switched into Adele doing "Skyfall." Nigel dropped into a solid but sultry baritone and began riffing croony girl-backup harmonies, tossing torch onto Adele's scorch. Molly grinned and began a slinky, hokey Bond-girl stalk-and-shimmy.
Which was, of course, when Sherlock and John walked in. Had to be. It was the patented Molly Hooper Karma. Greg would have been better. Greg would have laughed. She'd heard his laugh—it was big and warm and happy.
Sherlock stared like a goosed spinster, and John looked hideously embarrassed for her—which only made it worse.
She was frozen in mid-grind. She could feel the joy leaching out of everything.
Sherlock was still and icy cold, whether with shock or disgust she couldn't tell. He cocked his head almost microscopically, and said, "Planning on backup as a club dancer if you don't make it into med school, Molly?"
"Well, bugger-all, if it ain't the vicar and his wife," Nigel drawled. "There goes that knees-up. Hide the booze and get out the chamomile tea, Moll. No more hijinks till Prunes and Prisms are gone."
Sherlock's eyes went nova, and he shot a wicked glare at Nigel before drawling in his own stratospherically Oxbridge accent, "I see you're consorting with a closet furry, these days. Pity, but you can't claim I didn't try to do better for you, Molly."
"That's nothin' but the freak calling the geek weird," Nigel taunted. "Face it, Sherl, strip off the one-trick-pony carnival deduction act and you're just one more socially clueless wanker with good clothes and crappy manners. Welcome to the club. World's full of us."
"At least I have the good clothes," Sherlock snarled, edging into true tantrum.
The look Nigel returned was sweet with both victory and contentment. "Yeah, yeah. But I've got all the good songs, and the friends to sing 'em with."
Now it was Sherlock standing like a deer in the headlights, jaw slightly dropped. Molly and John exchanged panicky glances, unsure what to do that wouldn't summon up an Eldritch Horror so awful even Lovecraft couldn't have imagined it. Nigel, though, was in the moment, riding his own private wave. He met Sherlock's eyes with his own honey brown ones, googly glasses magnifying them and his ginger locks wild as his beloved Tom Baker's. "You're not going to hurt Moll," he said, almost amiably. "Not havin' it. Sorry."
"What's that? Sherlock, you on Molly's case again?"
Like characters in a bad "Murder at the Country House" tv special, everyone whirled to where Greg Lestrade stood in the doorway of the lab. He had on a well-worn soot black Burberry and had a plain black laptop case slung over one shoulder. He glanced apologetically at Molly, and said, "Sorry, Molly. Got off a bit sooner than expected and made good time on the way over. Is early a problem?"
Before he could return his attention to Sherlock and the brewing "incident," Molly realized what New Normal Molly should do. She took a deep breath, grinned back at Greg, and said, "Nope. Timing couldn't be better. Nige and I were just finishing up and having a bit of a sing-song and a knees up—it's been a good day. Nige is better than karaoke. Wait a minute while I do the last bit and we can be out of here."
"Don't worry about that, Moll," Nigel said. "I'll finish up here. Grab your coat and bag and push off."
Molly smiled and nodded. "Thanks, Nige. You're a sweetie." She started toward the coat hooks.
John, with something clear and comprehensible to do, said, "Oh, here. Let me help you with that." He snatched her coat and purse off the hook and held them, like an old-school gentleman. As she slipped into the coat he eased it over her shoulders and leaned in, whispering, "Sorry. Just caught off guard. Next time I'll do the baritone line, not that I'm any match for Nigel." He turned to open the door for her, only to find Lestrade already there, and holding out his arm.
Behind her, Sherlock said, in a flat voice, "She's going out with Lestrade, John. I think she can count on doors being opened without your help."
Lestrade, tucking her hand into the turn of his elbow, looked back over his shoulder. In a voice that was almost gentle, he said, "Been listening to you for years, now, Sherlock. I've learned to trust you when you tell me something. Thanks for the tip."
"Mere observation," Sherlock said, still sounding hollowed out. "It's logic, really. When you've eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be true. Go. Have fun. Be good to her."
The two were halfway out the door when Molly turned back. "Sherlock? It's going to be at least a day till you get the test results back in, but I talked with one of the top forensic researchers at Cameron during my interview today. I had an idea, and we both think it's worth treating as a strong possibility. I think it's going to turn out to be botulinum or a botulinum derivative. There's a fair chance the guard was planning on killing Mycroft with Botox. I've put together some notes. They're on my desk. Be sure to pick them up before you go."
Molly wasn't quite sure how Greg managed, in a matter of minutes, to shift them from prim Victorian arm-in-arm to her with her arm around his waist, and him with his around her shoulders. It seemed to happen with lazy grace, and his grip on her was light, undemanding, and friendly as they walked north from to the chop house.
"Someone's trying to murder Mycroft?" he asked, casually, not losing the rhythm of his stride. "Not just regular chickenpox, then?"
"It looks that way. The chickenpox may have been natural, though the Oka strain makes me wonder if someone wasn't taking a shot in the dark. Oka strain gets past immunization sometimes. The staph almost certainly wasn't. And if I'm right, and the syringe your people have holds some form of botulinum toxin…that's just murder, plain and simple."
"Wouldn't it be obvious, though?"
"No. A low concentration fed into the IV might not be spotted even in a healthy patient. But a low concentration fed into the IV of a comatose patient with pneumonia? Look, if you already knew someone was bleeding to death from a gunshot wound, would you go looking for an anticoagulant in the blood that made the victim bleed out faster?"
"Probably not. Not without some evidence to make me look."
"And if the evidence was subtle? That's the thing: a low concentration of Botox would just do more of what the pneumonia was doing already. Most people who die of botulism die of reduced respiratory function. The muscles don't work as well, less air is brought in, circulation is failing… If the guard had managed to give Mycroft the shot without being caught, it wouldn't have been obvious what was happening, because he would have just appeared to get worse. And we're already afraid that's going to happen."
"Huh." His index finger tapped lightly on the tip of her shoulder, a restless drumming that felt like and established habit. "Would it show up in the blood work?"
"Yes and no. Yes, if you knew to test for it, or if you did thorough testing: mass spectrometer, NMR, IR, melting point. More, too. But we don't test for everything most of the time: it costs too much in time and money. Even with full testing—it takes incredibly small dilutions of botulinum to kill someone. Testing for trace elements can be finicky work."
"So the best way is to have a hint already, so you can—what? Aim more precisely from the start?"
"Yes."
"And if you don't have a hint, it may just be missed."
"If you were expecting the patient to die of reduced respiratory function and slow systemic failure anyway. Yeah."
They cut across West Smithfield, jogged over onto East Poultry Avenue, and headed for Charterhouse. It was dark already, and a damp mist hung lightly. Molly found herself easily and naturally slipping her arm into and under Greg's trench coat and leaning a bit closer, enjoying the sense of solid strength and mass. He was taller than John, slightly shorter than Sherlock, but more muscular and solid than either of them.
After awhile Greg said, "is it hard to get your hands on Botox?" She could almost hear wheels turning—not the screaming whir of thoughts at lightning speed that she associated with Sherlock, but something steadier, but no less purposeful.
"Dead simple," she said. "Easy to steal. Easy enough to find a crooked supplier. If you've got a crooked doctor to work with, you don't even have to break any laws."
"Well, right up till you murder someone," Greg pointed out.
"Yes," she replied.