-Day 2.
The blindfold falls off, and hostile brightness obscures Molly's vision. She whimpers. When, many blinks later, her vision is finally acceptably clear, she sees that she is in a small interrogation room. No windows. Blank walls. White incandescent light. With the residual blur lingering in her eyes, she feels as if she has just gone mad and been transported into an asylum.
Guy Fawkes sits across from her, and, as always, is smiling.
"Unbind her," his slick voice instructs. It is not until another pair of hands tugs violently at the rope around her wrists that Molly registers another presence behind her. She turns her head in a moment of curiosity and confusion, and her body jolts in startle. It is another Guy Fawkes who smiles just as morbidly as his companion, as he slits Molly's binds loose with a clean, skilled slice.
Molly gasps feebly, and tries to rub her wrists with her numb fingers.
The Guy Fawkes Across gives the Guy Fawkes Behind a nod, and the Guy Fawkes Behind turns obediently and leaves, slamming the rusty iron door shut.
"Do you know why we brought you here, Dr. Molly Hooper?"
Molly's gaze lifts from her bruised wrists unto the Guy Fawkes Across. She does not try to reply.
Guy Fawkes chuckles, and pushes a folder across the dusty tabletop between them. "Read this. Take your time, darling. You've got the whole morning."
Molly reaches with a trembling hand for the folder, keeping her suspicious stare on Guy Fawkes.
"Oh, don't be shy now," Guy Fawkes purrs through the thin gap that is his mouth, inclining his head, clearly diverted. "You'll like it. Promise."
Molly slowly slips two fingers through the covers and fishes out the first piece of paper, doubt and trepidation in her eyes as she begins to read.
Silence. More silence. Guy Fawkes's smile seems to widen, and Molly's fear fades as she reads on.
She places the first page down and pulls out the second. Then the third. Then the fourth. Each page is read faster and with more attention than the last, and by the time she piles the pages together and reinserts them into the folder, she tenses and stares straight into the smile on the Guy Fawkes mask. There are tears in her eyes.
"Are these... real?"
Guy Fawkes scoffs. "Of course they are. That's why you're here. That's why they're here."
Molly's lips part, but for a while no sound projects. When she finally manages to speak, her voice is cracking and wavering. "Them?"
Guy Fawkes leans forward and studies her bewilderment intently with his deep, dark holes of eyes. "Do you know, Miss Hooper, that if it weren't for your interesting behaviour in your flat last night, I would now be giving you the choice of walking out of this room and leaving as you please?"
Molly breaks the disturbing eye contact and looks down at the colourful cover of the folder. Guy Fawkes chuckles contently and leans back, crossing his legs. "But of course, if you had the choice, you would choose to stay; you're different from most of them. Am I right?"
Molly digs her teeth deep into her lower lip, feeling the metallic taste of blood at the tip of her tongue. There is a long stillness, with nothing but Molly's agitated breaths filling the air. The silence ceases when Molly places a hand atop the folder and drags it closer. Scratch.
"Let me read these again."
Guy Fawkes toss back his head and laughs.
"Yes, yes, Miss Molly Hooper. You would choose to stay."
-Chapter 3-
In Search
-Day 3.
'Mar. 27, 1730 KC to Ipswich, get info. -SH' -29 Mar., 2012. 19:24P.M.
-Day 4.
'Dr. H. Arendale from Capio Nightingale Hospital booked 15 tickets. -M' -30 Mar., 2012. 8:24A.M.
'[Link] -M' -30 Mar., 2012. 8:30A.M.
'[Link] -M' -30 Mar., 2012. 8:42A.M.
'[Link] -M' -30 Mar., 2012. 8:51A.M.
'[Link] -M' -30 Mar., 2012. 8:53A.M.
'Shut up. I get the idea. On it. -SH' -30 Mar., 2012. 8:53A.M.
'[Link] -M' -30 Mar., 2012. 8:54A.M.
'[Link] [Link] [Link] -M' -30 Mar., 2012. 8:57A.M.
'[Link] [Link] [Link] [Link] [Link] -M' -30 Mar., 2012. 8:59A.M.
'SHUT UP. -SH' -30 Mar., 2012. 9:00A.M.
-Day 4.
"Excuse me. I have an appointment with Dr. Bryan at ten o'clock this morning."
"I'm sorry; Dr. Bryan requested an emergency leave three days ago. Did you not get a call from us informing you that your appointment has been cancelled?"
"Oh, no! I must've missed it. I was on a trip abroad. Thank you for letting me know!"
"No problem, sir, and we're truly very sorry. Would you like to reschedule?"
"I think I'd like to wait until he comes back first, if that's okay."
"Of course. Have a great day, sir."
...
"Excuse me. I'm Sigmund Hooper from FortéBio of the Pall Corporation. Dr. McDermon has contacted us recently, and expressed interest in purchasing our High Throughput Octet System. May I meet with him to discuss this business opportunity?"
"I'm very sorry, Mr. Hooper. Dr. McDermon is currently on leave. A very sudden family event has deprived us of his presence. Would you mind postponing the meeting until he returns?"
"That's unfortunate. I guess we'll have to. When do you suppose he'll return?"
"I'm not sure; he said that it's complicated. Should I leave a note in his office and ask him to contact you later?"
"You're too kind; please don't trouble yourself. I'll check back with him later."
...
...
...
"Excuse me. I'm looking for Dr. Arendale. I'm a soon-to-be Master's student and a great admirer of his work on characterizing the hypervariable region of the Hepatitis C virus. Could I... maybe have a word with him, if he's got a few moments?"
"I'm sorry, sir, but Dr. Arendale is unwell. He requested a sick leave four days ago, and we're not sure when he'll be back."
"Oh. Oh, that's terrible."
"Would you like to leave your name and phone number? We can leave your information on his desk for his reference when he returns."
"Oh, no, no, that's quite all right; wouldn't dream of troubling the Doc now. I'll come back later. I sure hope he feels better soon!"
Martha Hudson's green tote bag dangles loosely on her shoulder as she locks the door of 221B. She turns and takes a few steps, past Speedy's towards the supermarket, when a man across the street catches her eye.
A tall young boy, she remarks to herself. Thirty-something, probably. He stands immobile at the edge of the sidewalk and stares blankly at the door of her flat, and he...
Mrs. Hudson fishes her spectacles from her tote bag and puts them on. The redheaded, freckled man seems very different from the sort of men she's accustomed to knowing, with a hunched back, an almost comical moustache, and a taste in attire that is atrociously informal for his age. But somehow...
Mrs. Hudson surveys the road a few times to ensure no cars are coming either way, and hobbles across the street. She grimaces; her hip has been getting worse lately.
The young man hardly notices her until she offers an enthusiastic "hullo". Startled, he turns to her and, upon meeting her friendly gaze, is genuinely embarrassed. "H-hullo," his baritone voice resonates softly, with a little stutter.
Mrs. Hudson smiles, both at his flustered reply, and at her silly self for likening this man to somebody who couldn't have been more different. "Nice day, isn't it?"
"Yeah," he nods diffidently and looks away.
"You've been standing here and staring at my front door for a while," Mrs. Hudson points out with good humour, "Is there anything I can help you with?"
"Oh, no, no," he waves his hands, trying to stretch his lips awkwardly into a grin. Mrs. Hudson is sure he is blushing. "I-I'm waiting for a friend. Sorry. My eyes go all over the place when I'm waiting. I didn't mean to - "
"Oh, don't apologize, dear," Mrs. Hudson laughs and gives him an affectionate pat on the shoulder. "I was only a little worried for you. You seemed a little... troubled. Plus, it's still quite cold out here, despite the sunshine. Next time you go out, I'd suggest at least one more layer. The weather's atrocious this year."
The man timidly smiles. "Thank you, ma'am. You're too kind."
A black car pulls from the roadside to a stop in front of the man and the elderly lady. The man glances through the window and chuckles uneasily at Mrs. Hudson. "My friend's here now."
"That sure is good news," Mrs. Hudson heaves a sigh of relief, motioning a little friendly wave to the driver. "Go on and have fun then, young man. I'd best be off to the supermarket."
The man's eyelashes flicker uncertainly as he watches her turn and begin to hobble away. "... Would you like a ride, ma'am?"
Mrs. Hudson shakes her head and laughs. "Oh, no, thank you, dear. The supermarket's only a few minutes away."
"Sigmund" stands by the window and stares pensively at the darkening sky outside, tapping his feet impatiently against the carpet. When the door clicks and Mycroft Holmes enters with his ever-faithful umbrella at his side, "Sigmund" spins around and groans.
"This'll be the last time I ever comply with one of your ridiculous demands," Sherlock spits through his teeth and plops himself onto the most ornate chair in the room.
Mycroft raises an eyebrow and locks the door behind him. "I'm sure this wish of yours will come true some day. It has failed to for long enough." He lays down his briefcase by the door and sits on the armchair opposite Sherlock, hanging the handle of his umbrella on the arm stump. He studies his brother with a pensive frown. "And quit complaining. I made an exception and agreed to pick you up on Baker Street. You even spoke with Mrs. Hudson, I heard. Very imprudent, I must say."
Sherlock scoffs and looks away. "Capio Nightingale is five minutes away from Baker Street. You know how I hate waiting. If I have to wait, I'd rather do so in a more friendly environment than in front of a hospital, thank you very much."
Mycroft pours some tea from the ready teapot on the table between them, and lets the subject drop. "You investigated the statuses all twenty-five on-leave pathologists on the list I sent you?"
"Understand this, Mycroft: I wouldn't have if I weren't 'dead', or if I had Internet to buy, with the fake ID you gave me, my own ticket to Ipswich," Sherlock seethes, snatching his cup from the saucer and taking a large sip.
"My, my, isn't it inconvenient being dead," Mycroft's lips curl into a smirk, though his eyes are unfazed. "You're ever so resentful, Sherlock. Don't forget that the phone I gave you is the only safe electronic device you'll ever touch in this city, and don't forget who it was that impulsively decided to play dress-up the moment he arrived in London. I did give you the option to live here under the name of the fake ID, but did you take it? You brought this awkward situation entirely upon yourself."
"Mycroft, Molly Hooper sent an S.O.S. message to you, yet you left her flat uninspected for two days," Sherlock snaps irritably. "That's ridiculous and highly unprofessional. I'm only acting swiftly to compensate for your incompetence."
"I debugged her flat. Besides, no one has called in to report her disappearance. There's no way we can get a search warrant for her flat."
"Oh, you and your damnable officiality. It doesn't matter, Mycroft; Molly never asks for help!" Sherlock springs from his seat and paces about, hands in the air in exasperation. "The fact that she's gone out of the way to contact you using an ATM machine should've been enough for you to start an investigation immediately. She's competent enough to leave more than one clue, you know!"
Mycroft's eyes follow Sherlock's figure around the room, and a brow is raised. "I had other matters to attend to, Sherlock."
"Oh, certainly, like looking up the profiles and CVs of all the pathologists in this city who are on leave, when you could've found the culprit by acting quickly and saving the one," Sherlock rolls his eyes and sneers.
"Cut it out, Sherlock," Mycroft sets his teacup on the saucer and rises with a frown. "You should know very well by now that we're dealing with something big. A single culprit is not what we're after."
There is a pause, and Sherlock sardonically laughs. "As I suspected. Your interest was never in Molly's individual case."
"I don't see why it should be," Mycroft says simply, not withdrawing from Sherlock's accusative glare.
A short silence ensues.
"Do try to remember that she knows as much about my survival as you do," Sherlock begins, hissing his words through gritted teeth.
"And do try to remember that I, at the very least, deemed her disappearance important enough to call for your return." Mycroft fires tersely, in a tone that terminates the subject from further discussion. "Now, let's sit back down, have some tea, and discuss the missing pathologists, shall we?"
Sherlock reluctantly returns to the ornate chair and fishes a piece of paper from his jeans pocket. "Of the twenty-five pathologists whose profiles you forwarded to me, fourteen requested leave on the 27th of March, including Molly. Arendale, who was the holder of fifteen tickets to the March 27th 17:30 Ipswich train, requested his leave one day earlier, on March 26th. That makes fifteen pathologists on a single train to Ipswich."
Mycroft takes Sherlock's list and browses pensively. "All top-notch from this city. This isn't to be taken lightly indeed. And Arendale - "
"- As much of a victim as all the others, obviously," Sherlocks interrupts impatiently, taking another sip of the now-cold tea. "As if the criminals would be silly enough to drop a real identity while purchasing train tickets for their hostages. Now, what interests me is why the criminals lumped all the tickets under a single name. Surely they know that a one-time purchase of fifteen train tickets might attract a bit of attention. They could easily have pressed some more pathologists into buying tickets, or even put the pathologists on different trains. But they did not. And by the way, Mycroft, make some new tea, for God's sake. This is hardly drinkable now."
Mycroft ignores the request for tea. His brows knot into a scowl as he ponders. "This is a game to them."
"As much as I hate to agree with you, I believe it's quite so," Sherlock concurs dryly. "I imagine the criminals in this city like to play games a lot more, now that I'm 'dead' while Moriarty's influence lives."
Mycroft scans his brother warily, but Sherlock's eyes are closed, and the consulting detective seems perfectly indifferent on the surface. Mycroft sighs and retrieves a paper slip from the inner pocket of his suit. "Here's your ticket to Ipswich."
Sherlock jumps and instantly swipes the ticket from his hand, a satisfied smirk at his lips. "Ah! I have been waiting for this. Well, then, I shall get going immediately. You make use of that list and let me know anything that you find interesting; meanwhile I'm going to get Molly out of the mess."
"Don't get carried away," Mycroft warns, as he watches "Sigmund" throw on his jacket and struggle to stuff his feet into his All Stars sneakers. "By the way. Absolutely hideous disguise."
"Now that's something I wholeheartedly agree with," Sherlock already has one foot out of the door when he responds, but he pauses suddenly in mid-stride and turns. There is a small pause, as the consulting detective's jaw trembles, struggling to bring out an inquiry from the bottom of his heart.
"How's Mum and Dad?"
Mycroft cannot hold back a smile, and this time his eyes soften, too.
"Waiting eagerly for the day they could smack you in the head and scream abuse at your face."
When the painfully long whistle of the train finally subsides, "Sigmund" heaves a sigh of relief and looks at his watch. Five thirty-two. The train is quite on time.
Sherlock stares outside the window for an astonishing total of five minutes, before his boredom begins to tickle his nerves. It takes him five more minutes to observe and deduce everyone in sight. One businessman: keeps a dog, just returned from a trip to Cuba. One alcoholic waitress: just lost her job. One physics teacher: pedophile, child porn addict. One teenage couple: eloping; boy only playing with girl.
Sherlock sinks lower on his seat and softly groans. Boring.
"What do you need?"
Sherlock jolts and turns to the source of the soft voice. It is only a train personnel attending to another passenger. Of course. He berates himself for reacting at all, and his gaze drops to the table in front of him, where he lay down Molly's pink notebook when he boarded the train.
He reaches his fingers toward the cover, and feels the smooth surface of the leather beneath his touch. Why did he decide to bring this book along, when he was determined to pack minimal belongings in order not to arouse Mrs. Crawford's suspicions? Sherlock carefully inspects the worn edges of the notebook and frowns. It was a hunch against reason, but he gave in to it. And now that he thinks back to his decision, he isn't entirely certain why he gave in.
Molly. Molly Hooper. Quite possibly the single person who has surprised him the most before his fall. And she has surprised him again.
Sherlock opens the notebook. His decoded message is wedged inside, and he scans its content again. "fIve thirTY IpsWicH kings X." Not bad. Genuinely not bad. She's kept him busy on her clues for a long while, and she was under constant danger and threat when she devised them. Sherlock pushes his hypothetical, unsettling imaginations of her current situation to the back of his mind, and flips once more through the pages.
In all honesty, Sherlock Holmes does not enjoy being surprised. To him, surprise is merely an end result of poor judgment, and poor judgment is not to be tolerated for a mind as trained as his. Sometimes he would treat surprise with denial, much as how he treats all traces of weakening sentiments he senses within. But... his fingers navigate through the pages languidly, and he heaves a quiet sigh.
"fIve thirTY IpsWicH kings X".
Double withdrawals. 505 pounds.
"I don't count."
"What do you need?"
Sherlock Holmes knows that Molly Hooper is the most outstanding pathologist in Bart's, who has published two papers in Cell and three more in Nature. He knows that she's timid, easily amused, a lousy conversationalist, and absolutely terrible at making jokes. He knows that she's insistent on lab safety, has slight obsessive-compulsive disorder, and represses her urge to nag at him for disobeying the rules whenever he's in the lab. He knows that, despite loving her job more than anything, she gets distracted often, and sketches little cartoon caricatures on her white board. He knows the most trifling details about her pet peeves and her strange habits, and he even knows about her family members from the few times he's made the effort to deduce her in-depth. But it was not until recently that Sherlock Holmes realized: he knows next-to-nothing about the complexity of Molly Hooper's mind.
Sherlock cups his left hand around the notebook's spine, and lifts it closer into view. Is this book a puzzle? Maybe the desire to solve it is what prompted him to bring it along on this trip. He is baffled still, by the moment she deduced him in the morgue, and even more so by what she has done in the past few days. Maybe he finally wants an answer now.
Sherlock flips to the first entry written in letter form, and, with a deep breath, he begins to read.
-D-A-
06 Apr., 2011
Dear Antirealist,
Do you know that you're an anti-realist? Of course you don't, because your belief is so ingrained in you. You would think of your belief as no less than the single truth in the world, and you would never know that there are other options. You wouldn't know that your belief has a name, either. Why would it need a name other than "righteousness", when it's the single mindset that dominates your existence?
You probably shun others who don't think like you do, because, well, you can be a bit of an extremist sometimes, can't you? Would you care at all about the methods of those who don't observe the world like you? I can hardly imagine it.
Do I wish to be like you? Sometimes, perhaps. I should definitely like to have a bit of common language with you. But, in the end, I know I will never quite be on your level. I will never be an anti-realist, because I'm the polar opposite. I'm a realist and, dear antirealist, I hardly care if you scorn. I'm reconciled, and I'm proud of being a realist.
Wait. Will you scorn? Perhaps not, actually, because you wouldn't know what I'm talking about. You would hardly think the philosophy of science is useful for your arts.
Will it help if I give you some brief, simple definitions?
Scientific realism: scientific entities, whether observable or unobservable, should be construed as existent, as literally having truth values.
Scientific anti-realism: unobservable scientific entities should be classified as unreal and non-existent.
Well, what do you think, antirealist? Are you going to scorn me now for being a realist, or laugh at me for mentioning scientific philosophy at all?
It's six. Best be off to work. Write to you later, dear antirealist!
Sincerely,
A Realist
-D-A-
What in the world does all that mean? Sherlock's eyebrows knot in befuddlement as he reaches the last word. Is this "dear antirealist" a material existence, or simply a figment of Molly's imagination? If the latter, why did she have to define the philosophical terms to an entity she imagined? Oftentimes, human imagination strives for perfection; it hardly seems logical that she would imagine an anti-realist who doesn't even know the existence or the meaning of his own belief, which, in Sherlock's opinion, is quite a silly flaw.
And this first letter... Sherlock flips hastily back to earlier entries. No connections whatsoever to her ordinary diary. The last diary entry was written on the 2nd of April, 2011, with a brief mention of Jim from I.T. Sherlock rolls his eyes as he sees the name, and flicks the pages back to the "Dear Antirealist" letters.
Well, he would certainly have to read more than one entry to solve the puzzle.
Bleep.
Sherlock groans and whips out his phone. What does Mycroft want now?
'Arendale dead Ipswich Wolsey's Gate. -M' -30 Mar., 2012. 17:59P.M.
Sherlock's heart sinks. He slaps the notebook shut and tosses it back onto the table. He starts to type a reply, but before he could press "Send", another beep sounds, and a new text bubble pops up.
'Hooper blog updated. -M' -30 Mar., 2012. 18:00P.M.
Sherlock's gaze sways between the two lines of text, and his frown deepens.
A/N: In this story, Sherlock's fall happened on the episode air date (Jan. 2012). All other events refer to dates on BBC official blogs. So, there's going to be a conflict between the fall date in my story and the fall date in John's blog (some time in June). I hope this isn't too much of a problem.
A review now would be really lovely :)! Tear me apart! Tear the story apart! I loves it :).