Playing the Fool
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Chapter Five

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It was late in the afternoon by the time John found Molly Hooper's apartment complex and he was surprised to discover that it was in a part of town usually reserved for the working class. It was the sort of place that John wouldn't want Molly walking around in after dark - or any woman for that matter. There were copious amounts of graffiti and litter, as well as a pair of loud ruffians screaming at each other in the street. However, John's protective instinct was somewhat pacified when he turned the corner and spotted a freshly whitewashed structure sporting Molly's address. He took in its up-to-date security and well lit walk-ways and mentally nodded to himself. He approached the intercom and was pleased to find that it took him less than a second to find Molly's name plate. It was one of the first on the list - buzzer number 04.

It rang for several seconds before a familiar voice answered, "Hello?"

"Molly, it's me… John. Do you mind if I come up for a moment?"

She buzzed him in, but didn't give any verbal reply. John took that as a bad omen and entered the building tentatively. As soon as he crossed the main threshold he stopped, cursed under his breath, and rolled his eyes. He had forgotten that didn't know her flat number. He turned to go back and use the intercom again when he heard someone calling his name.

"John?"

A door had opened to the right, and Molly was standing in the doorframe looking distressed. John gave her a friendly nod in greeting, which she returned hesitantly before relaxing slightly. She looked healthier than he remembered – that or he had been picturing her in his mind as an emotional wreck. She was dressed casually in jeans and a sweater, her hair unbound and slightly wavy over one shoulder. However, it was her face that attracted most of John's attention; her eyes were full of trepidation.

"Would you like a cup of tea?" She asked with a false smile.

"Yes please." John moved past her and entered her residence as if it were his own. His eyes roamed over everything, taking in details in case he would require them later. From his preliminary analysis, he figured out she owned a cat, but such a deduction was aided by the cat popping out of a doorway to stare at the newcomer with curious eyes.

Molly shut the door behind them and moved into the kitchenette. "That's Toby by the way. He's a little shy… but he doesn't bite."

The sound of running water alerted John to the use of the kettle. He showed himself to the living room and sat down on the comfortable sofa to wait. The décor of the apartment was old fashioned and a tad more pastel than John had expected. If Sherlock were there, he could have probably spelled Molly's entire life story from the walls and surfaces.

"Sorry to drop in like this… I just had a few questions." John said loudly so that he could be heard over Molly's tea preparations.

He was answered by the sound of a saucer hitting a countertop too hard, followed by porcelain trembling against porcelain.

"N-No problem! I seldom get visitors... the only people I see on a daily basis are dead after all." Her voice was higher pitched now that she was engaged in small talk. She looked frazzled as she emerged from the kitchen and set down the well stocked tea set between the two of them. There was nothing but awkward tension in the air as Molly settled into a floral arm chair and tried to look anywhere but at John. It was amazing how the woman could turn an uncomfortable situation into something so much worse.

"Anything the matter?" John smiled faintly. Her body language screamed that she had something to hide. It was a wonder Mycroft didn't drag her into an interrogation chamber the moment she returned to England.

Molly slowly turned her head, forcing herself to look at the doctor. "No… no… I'm fine. Questions? You said you had questions…"

John extended a hand towards the teapot and glanced up at her, "May I?"

"Oh! Yes… sorry. I'm not a very good hostess. Well… I am. Well… I mean, with tea. Err… sorry." She put her hands to her face, embarrassed. "So sorry, very long day, I haven't really wound down yet. There was this horrible corpse at work - recently fished out of the Thames. Everyone knows I hate the bloated ones since they just 'pop' when you go to open them you know… gets everywhere. Rather disgusting."

John froze in mid-pour, slightly horrified.

"Oh! I'm so sorry! I know I shouldn't talk shop when you're - we're… trying to hold a civil conversation." Molly looked like she was going to die of shame. "I… I'll just be quiet."

"No, it's all right. I'm a doctor after all; I've seen and heard worse. Though, that does sound like a horrible day." John was trying his best to provide a relaxing atmosphere, and it worked for awhile as Molly took a deep breath and stopped fiddling with the hem of her sweater. Her cat came around and rubbed his cheek on her outstretched foot. She gave it an adoring glance before watching John pour some milk in his tea.

"So… you did Sherlock's autopsy." John said plainly, trying to figure out the best way to get as much information as possible without Molly falling to pieces.

"Y-yes. Never thought I'd ever…." She cut her sentence short as moisture started to bead in the corner of her eye. To distract herself she poured herself some tea, and slowly sipped it to calm down. "It was something I never thought I'd have to do."

"What I don't quite understand is…" John wanted to be delicate, but he was a tired man. "How you could have possibly performed Sherlock's autopsy if he's not dead?"

It was the wrong move and John paid for it. Molly jumped to her feet and spilled tea everywhere. The doctor had to dive to the side to avoid the scalding mixture. All the while, Molly was going through the entire spectrum of human emotion via interpretive dance.

"WHAT! I… no… that. I had my doubts… but I saw the body! I didn't think… "She put a hand to her mouth and started to pace her living room. "He's alive?"

John didn't know how to take her excessive reaction. In order for Sherlock to fake a suicide he would have had to get Molly's help. How could he be alive and Molly not know?

"… you didn't know? You had no idea that he was alive?" John rubbed the bridge of his nose. Things were supposed to be getting clearer, not more complicated. "Wait… did you in fact do an autopsy?"

"No, of course not! I mean… oh… this is ridiculous." Molly sank back into her seat. Her shoulders slumped as she flung her legs out the way a child would when flopping into a bean-bag chair. She seemed relieved and frightened all at the same time, and she was trembling from head to toe.

"I think you have some explaining to do." John said tersely.

Molly took a shuddered breath before looking John in the eye and giving him a pleading expression. "You have to understand… I didn't know how big this would be. He usually only asks me for small favors, but he came to me… the day before he died…" She stared at the ceiling, recalling Sherlock's face. "He was white as a sheet. He said-"

"Molly, I think I'm going to die."

John closed his eyes, trying to imagine the scene. Sherlock would have been at the end of his rope. Molly would have been desperate to try and help him. Sherlock's ability to manipulate would have been at its finest.

"He gave me instructions… they weren't anything fancy. He said that I'd needed to play a part in something that I wasn't going to like, but I was the only one - the only one that could make it work. I-" She was trying so hard not to cry, but tears slid down her cheeks as she tried to continue. "I agreed to do anything he asked of me."

"What did he tell you to do?"

Molly's fingers dug into the cushions of her chair. "He told me to be careful – not to tell anyone what I had done. He said that everything would work out in the end because you would fix it all."

"That's what I'm trying to do Molly, but I need you to tell me everything you know."

There was a moment where John thought that she was going to clam up and not tell him anything. He saw a gleam in her eyes that showed how stubborn she truly was, but then something gave way, and she looked like she had suddenly shed all of the worry and stress she'd been keeping locked up for months.

"He told me he was going to die, and that he didn't want bad people to get a hold of his body. He said that once his body was in my possession I was to watch over it. I thought he had gone mad! He wouldn't tell me when or where he would die. The more I asked questions the more he looked at me like I was some sort of idiot." She rubbed at the tears that were still forming in the corners of her eyes.

"Sherlock said that friends of his would bring him back to the morgue and that no one but me could handle his body – and even then, I wasn't supposed to touch him, just transport him. He couldn't risk my fingerprints being found on the body or… something like that." Molly's voice grew fainter the more she talked, as though the narrative was draining all of her energy.

"After I got a hold of him, I was to put him in the second fridge from the right and leave it unlocked, because during the night some more of his people were going to steal him. I was to let them in and lock everything up after they had gone. Afterwards I was to fabricate a death certificate and an autopsy report, and when that was finished, I was to replace his body with a John Doe so that when the funeral director came in two days he'd have something to take. Once everything was completed, I was to fly to Holland for two months. Sherlock said that by the time I came back everything should have worked itself out…"

"I don't understand… some friends of his were to bring him to the morgue? Who were they?" John felt like he was back at his flat, taking down notes on a case – only he was playing Sherlock's role as well as his own. He wished he had brought his laptop.

"A doctor, two nurses, and some people off the street. They wheeled him in minutes after he jumped. It was such a backwards day… I didn't catch any of their names… which is stupid of me since I was just talking to that doctor earlier, when I was outside waiting for a text. I thought he was off duty since he was in a suit… but he brought his stethoscope with him. I thought it was odd…"

"Wait… why were you outside?"

"I was waiting for a text. My service provider isn't the best; I can't receive texts inside the morgue... so I go outside on my breaks." At John's bewildered look Molly explained, "Sherlock said that he was going to text me at about ten in the morning to finalize things."

"Finalize things?"

Molly closed her eyes, "Yeah… this bit won't make sense... but… I got his text and all it said was 'look up', so I did, and there was Sherlock leaning over the edge of St. Bart's. He wouldn't even look at me. He dropped a rubber ball which I nearly missed catching, and then started laughing his head off. I almost didn't go back inside, but he jumped away from the edge and I thought for a moment that he was going to meet me in the morgue…"

Molly buried her face in her hands, "And he did… twenty minutes later… on a gurney… covered in blood."

Both of them looked away, remembering the appearance of the body in vivid detail.

"He was dead. You saw him dead." Things weren't adding up the way John wanted them to. Mycroft was certain that Sherlock was alive, whilst the coroner who was with him after the fall thought otherwise.

Molly nodded. "His head was a mess, but he had told me not to touch him. I didn't buy that fingerprint thing… since he knows I wear gloves, but I respected his wishes… even in death. He always has these plans… and he died for this one. I didn't want to ruin it. His eyes were wide open though John… just staring. I spent hours staring back…"

John ignored how creepy that sounded and focused on the case at hand. "You said he… he dropped a rubber ball? Can I see it?" It was the most out of place component of Molly's story, and probably the most important. Why would he choose to hand off such a thing in the middle of his final showdown with Moriarty? Was it the same rubber ball he was playing with back in the lab? He thought it odd then… but Sherlock did a lot of odd things.

"Yes." Molly said breathlessly as if she had been waiting for someone to take it off her hands for ages. She got up off her chair and went back into the kitchen. John could hear her rummaging around for something high up in her cupboards. "I hid it in case Sherlock's nosy brother wanted to take it. I wasn't sure I wouldn't blab about it… but I suppose I'm better at keeping secrets than I thought." She came back with the ball in her hands.

"There was a note inside of it." She squeezed the ball to open a deep slit that had been finely sliced across it, revealing a small hollow center. Within it was something black that was vaguely familiar, and wrapped around it was a piece of scrap paper. Molly took out the paper and handed it to John – it said:

"Molly, this is meant for John. It is my life, or rather… what is left of it. Do NOT give it to him unless he asks for it. Take care of it until then. Thank you for everything - SH"

The ink was smudged in several places. John suspected Molly had cried over it several times.

"You can keep this if you want." John handed the note back to her. She choked up as her fingers took the offer and exchanged it for the ball. She tried to say thank-you but it was beyond her capabilities at that moment.

John opened the little rubber sphere while she recovered and removed what turned out to be the miniature camera that Sherlock had discovered in their flat months ago. John had wondered where the device had gotten to. He thought he saw Sherlock slip it into his pocket before he was arrested… but that night was a blur since that was also the night he had punched the superintendant in the face.

"It was running on a 1.5 volt battery… its long dead now though." Molly said through a case of the sniffles. "I still have that too if you want it."

"No… it's fine." John narrowed his eyes at the dead camera. It sent its data wirelessly, so anything it could have recorded would be on a computer somewhere. Probably not Sherlock's laptop, nor John's since both of those were confiscated the night the pair of them became fugitives. Then again, there was no safer place to hide information then at Scotland Yard.

He was going to have to talk to Lestrade.

"Thank-you for the tea Molly. You've been very helpful."

Molly bit her lip and fidgeted with her hands. "John… how do you know he's alive? I mean… even if he wasn't… well… there isn't anything chemically that can simulate death that well..."

John pocketed the ball and camera. "There are just too many things that are out of place... and Sherlock is behind every one of them. I'm sure he thought of something. While I'm out, can you write down the descriptions of everyone that had helped wheel Sherlock into the morgue, as well as the ones that took him away during the night?"

"S-sure."

"You're doing the right thing Molly, don't worry. I'll sort this out and get back to you as soon as I can." The doctor gave her a smile before he turned and departed from the flat. He pulled out his phone as he began his walk towards one of the main roads. His head was too full of puzzle pieces that didn't quite fit in any arrangement his mind could construct. He just hoped that a phone call to an old friend would shed some light on the mystery.

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Author's Notes:

I swear I rewrote this chapter four times and I'm still not one hundred percent happy with it. Sorry if it's choppier than usual.

As for the current plot - The way I made Sherlock fake his suicide is a balance between intricacy and simplicity. I don't think he'd have Molly entirely 'in the know' because, all though she has an underlying strength of character, if any of Moriarty's flunkies got wind that she may have helped Sherlock out she would topple like a house of cards. Afterall, Jim knows Molly and Sherlock are pals. Instead I think he would have opted for her to be a lampost to help guide John to accomplishing the task he set out for him; it's more mysterious, annoying and 'less boring' which is Sherlock in a nutshell.

Please read and review! You all stunned me with the amount of feedback I recieved last chapter! It's keeping this fic thriving. Point out any errors you find, and tell me your opinions on my take on the case (I know it isn't using the most mainstream theories, I'm trying to be creative with the clues left behind). OH! And the thing that I think Moffat was hinting at with his "The fans are missing something blah blah..." is the camera. They dedicate a whole scene to it and it disappears...