A/N: Apologies! Profuse apologies for the slight delay. I'll spare you the gory details, but the entire house had the stomach flu. We are better, but - my daughter, bless her, is too young understand the concept of using a bucket. *shudders* The horror. The horror! *hold me*
Also, this chapter is...long. Maybe too long, but the next chapters will be a more reasonable length.
Also also, I don't own Sherlock.
Thanks for reading!
Ocean Swell
"I don't count."
-Molly, "The Reichenbach Fall"
She knows the words shouldn't matter. They shouldn't stick with her. And consciously, they don't.
But they are fixed in the back of her mind, biding their time, waiting to push to the forefront of her memory at the opportune moment.
It's a bit like being yelled at by a stranger on the tube for bumping into them, causing them to spill their coffee - or like being berated for a lack of human decency when she accidentally let the door close on a heavily pregnant woman.
It shouldn't matter, the words shouldn't mean anything – just consonants and vowels from the mouths of strangers who know very little to nothing about her life - and thus, can make no sound judgments upon it.
But Trish's words – like the stranger on the tube, and the hormonal pregnant woman -they make a tiny part of Molly wonder if what they say is true.
A tiny part of her wonders if these strangers can objectively see something she's missed, something she's oblivious too, because she's too wrapped up in her own world – a 'can't see the forest, for the trees' type of situation.
She brushes the words themselves off firmly, because her neighbor doesn't know anything – what's she seen, a handful of encounters, at most, through shuttered blinds? – And yet, the feelings associated with those words cling like dust to the back of her mind.
Don't waste your time…you're not worth much of his.
It doesn't help that Molly's sister decides to call.
After her strange encounter with Trish, Molly heads inside to rest. She's switched her schedule with a coworker so that Bonnie could travel to Devonshire for her niece's birthday. During a quick nap between shifts, Molly misses her sister's two calls, and several of her texts.
By the time she wakes, she needs to shower, eat, and head out the door in less than an hour, and so she studiously ignores said calls and texts until she's safely on the Tube on her way to work.
Molly! It's Meghan, give me a call when you get a chance. –MY
Molly! Did you get my messages? I want to hear from my baby sister! –MY
Molly. It's only 6. Why aren't you answering my calls? Or my texts? –MY
It's 6 on a Saturday night! Are you on a date?! –MY
Give me a smiley face if you're on a date. –MY
Or a frowny if it's bad and I'll call again to save you. -MY
At least let me know you're alive. –MY
Molly?! –MY
Molly inhales slowly through her nose, attempting to draw patience into her chest as well as air. Meghan Young (previously Hooper) has always had a flair for dramatics that, at times, rivals that of a certain consulting detective. The difference, however, is that Meghan has never seemed to grasp the idea that Molly occasionally works the night shift. She has also never grasped the concept of leaving one message and waiting patiently for the recipient of said message to return it at a time most convenient for them. Sherlock, at least, has managed that.
Molly thinks that perhaps she can get away with turning her phone on silent and waiting until her shift is over the next morning to call her sister, but rolls her eyes when the next text comes in.
Do I need to file a missing person's report? – MY
It's like she can sense Molly's looking right at that moment.
Sighing, Molly hits the Call icon next to her sister's name, and is not surprised when her sister picks up mid-way through the first ring.
"Molly!" Meghan calls cheerfully, and Molly has to hold her phone away from her ear, for a moment.
The person beside her on the Tube gives her a look and turns away, before Molly has the chance to mouth sorry. Molly grimaces and moves so that there is a seat between them.
"Meghan, hi-" Molly says softly, trying to bring her sister down to her voice level.
"Why didn't you answer my calls?"
Because I didn't want to talk to you, Molly thinks – but she pauses a moment before replying patiently. "I was sleeping, Meg. I have the night shift tonight."
"Oh, they're still making you work those? I'd have thought you'd have gotten more seniority or something by now." Molly opens her mouth to respond, but hears Meghan turn away from the phone before addressing her son. "Not now, Nathan. Go play. You've only got a bit of time before bed, besides. Who is it? I'm talking to Aunt Molly. Do you want to-?"
Molly would be lying if she said Nathan's disappointed 'oh, no thanks,' didn't hurt, just a bit.
"Anyway, where was I?" Molly hears Meghan close a door, and assumes she's gotten herself some privacy. "Oh, yes – night shift! Well, how's work, then?"
"Oh, you know – murder on my feet, but at least the company is usually pretty quiet." Molly smiles to herself.
"Ugh. Molly, that's terrible!" Meghan groans.
"Work really is good, though," Molly continues. "One of the patients I worked on last week had an extremely rare skin condition, and-"
"-No details, please," Meghan interrupts primly. "That's not exactly polite conversation, you know, Molly-dolly."
Neither is using a nickname I've hated since I was five, grumbles Molly to herself. Still, she knows better than to bring that up again. It would only lead to tears and half-hearted non-apologies like 'it's just a bad habit, you know I don't mean to bother you' mixed in with a good helping of 'why do you keep bringing it up when I've already said I was sorry'. Correcting her over five letters wasn't worth it.
"Well, then what would you suggest talking about, Meghan?" Molly asks, barely hiding her sarcasm. "I've got about ten minutes before I get to work."
"Glad you asked!" And Meghan launches into an explanation of how she ran into her husband Richard's friend's brother, and he's a doctor, too – a surgeon, in fact - but he works at a children's hospital and specializes in heart conditions, and isn't that fascinating? – And he's such a smart man, and very successful, and so sweet to work so well with children, and Nathan just adores him, because don't you know she was so interested in his work that she couldn't help but invite him for dinner to hear more, and wouldn't you know that he's single?!
Molly's eyes glaze over halfway through Meghan's speech, but her mouth snaps shut and her spine straightens, just a little, when Meghan mentions that the supposed-doctor-from-heaven is single.
"Not interested, Meghan," she snaps. How many times does she have to say it?
"Molly!" Meghan exclaims, and Molly is reminded of when her sister used to scold her for asking inappropriate questions at the dinner table.
"Thank you, Meghan, but really – I'm not interested in a doctor from Edinburgh, no matter how many hearts he's worked on." She says firmly.
"It's in the hundreds! I'm sure you'd find all sorts of morbid things to discuss! And what's wrong with Edinburgh?" Meghan says crossly.
Molly sighs, and grabs her bag as she stands to exit the Tube car. Carriage, a voice in her head reminds her, and she can't help the small twitch of her lips, despite being hounded for not living a life her sister approves of. "Nothing's wrong with Edinburgh. But I live in London. I like my job. I have a lovely flat in the center of town. I have friends. I'm happy."
Meghan huffs, and Molly thinks she's been successful, until –
"I talked to Tom the other day."
Molly freezes on the stairs, blinking for a moment, thinking she somehow misheard something. After a moment, she presses the phone to her ear again. "Excuse me?" Her voice is low and angry.
"Don't be angry, Molly, please! You know he'd promised to help Nathan out with his-"
"I thought when we broke up I'd at least get to keep my sister," Molly interrupts bitterly.
"Oh, Molly-dolly, don't be like that!" Meghan croons softly. "We love you! You do have us! We just – you know how much we liked Tom, and Nathan was asking about help with lacrosse, you know how he enjoys it – and his crosse stick broke last week, so we called him to see about getting the next level up as a replacement, you know?"
"I've got to go," Molly says abruptly, moving up the stairs again.
"No – no! Don't you dare hang up on me, Molly Hooper!" Meghan says sternly. "I love you. It's because I love you that I just - I just thought you should know that he's moved on. He's dating a nice girl from Brunswick. Met her on a business trip. He's happy; he's moved on," she repeats. "I think it's time that you did, too."
Her words are meant to be gentle, but they grate on Molly. She realizes that her shoulders are hunched up, tense, and she consciously makes an effort to pull them back and stand straighter. "Just because I'm not dating again doesn't mean I haven't moved on," she says stiffly as she walks briskly towards Barts.
"I'm not talking about moving on from Tom," Meghan says seriously.
At that, Molly stops again, lifting one hand, palm open to the sky, as if asking the universe why? "Then I'm not sure what you're referring to," she says evenly.
"Molly," Meghan says, in her motherly warning voice. "You do so."
There is uncomfortable silence for a moment, and then Meghan sighs. "I'm sorry, Molly. But I feel like it's my duty as your big sister to encourage you to let the man go. He's not doing you any favors, and if you keep him on, you'll never find someone to marry and grow old with. I hate to say it, but I'm not surprised things didn't work out with Tom – and things won't work out with anyone else if you don't seriously examine your boundaries with Sherlock Holmes. I want you to be happy."
Molly closes her eyes and prays for patience. "Meghan. For the last time, I am happy. I love my job, even when I work the night shift. I like living in London. I like my friends. I love my goddaughter. I like the boundaries I have with Sherlock Holmes. We're friends. I'm happy."
"You don't sound very happy."
Molly grits her teeth. It's the same conversation, every time, and she's tired of having it. "Just because my life isn't like yours, or like Mum and Dad's was, doesn't mean I'm not happy."
"Despite what you think, I know you, Molly. And I know you'd be happier if he returned your feelings, but we both know that isn't going to happen, and wasting your time waiting around for him to-"
"Meghan," Molly warns. "I am fine. I am not wasting – I'm not waiting for him. I enjoy being his friend. If I grow old and die alone with twelve cats and a handful of good friends and a goddaughter who visits, occasionally, so be it – I'll be content with that. Stop trying to 'fix' my life for me. I made it this way because - because I like it this way." Her voice rises unintentionally as she approaches the doors to the hospital.
"Methinks somebody protests too much."
"I've got to go. I'm at work. Good-bye, Meghan."
She doesn't listen to the entirety of Meghan's good-bye before smashing her finger on the End Call button and going in to work.
John wakes slowly, his vision as hazy and swirling as his stomach. He closes his eyes against the moving shadows before him, nauseated.
She shot me.
He feels hands smacking his cheek lightly, and a voice – sort of – annoyingly - familiar –
"Wake up, John. That's right – wake up!"
He groans and attempts movement in his fingers and toes. He feels a bit stiff, a bit bruised – but all in all, not bad.
Not dead, then.
"Yes, yes, fingers, toes, arms, legs – they all work just fine. Your eyes would, too, if you'd open them. A minor tranquilizer, wearing off quickly, no lasting side effects. It would be most helpful if you'd- mmph"
The speaker grunts as John's fist closes around a handful of fabric from a familiar Belstaff and uses it to pull himself upright.
He blinks groggily, releasing Sherlock's coat, and the detective before him staggers slightly, adjusting his coat before crouching down in front of his friend.
Apparently, John is taking too long to come to, because Sherlock places a gloved hand on his cheek again, patting him lightly until John shoves his hand away in irritation.
"Enough!"
"Well, you've taken long enough to wake up," Sherlock huffs petulantly. He hesitates for a moment, lips pressed together in concern. "Are you all right?"
"I'd be better if I hadn't just been shot by your bloody sister." He rubs a hand over his face, and then glances up at Sherlock, peering at him to gauge his reaction.
If he's been hiding this, this whole time –
But Sherlock scoffs, disbelieving. "Sister? I don't have a sister." He narrows his eyes at his friend. "Better stick with blogging, John, your deductions are getting more ridiculous with each attempt." He pulls something out of his pocket, and John realizes it must be the tranq dart he was shot with. Sherlock peers at it for a moment, and waves it under his nose, sniffing, before placing it back in his pocket. "Nope," he says, emphasizing the p. He straightens, and holds out a hand to help John up from the floor. He squints at the back of John's head. "Just your run-of-the-mill sedative. Should I have called an ambulance? Perhaps you hit your head harder than I first-"
John pulls away and runs a hand over the back of his head. Not even a bruise. His muscles are tense from being cramped in the position he'd fallen in, but judging by the tenderness on the left side of his body, he must've taken the brunt of the fall with his hip and arm. "I'm fine. Really. Fine. Better off than – damn, did you find-?"
"Therapist in a sack in the airing cupboard? Yep. Dead. Strangulation. Open and closed case. Except for the whole 'who-dun-it' thing. Already gotten everything I can from her. I'll place an anonymous call to the Yard when we leave, but I wanted to make sure I'd had free run of the place, first. You've missed your shift at the clinic, don't worry – I called you in."
John shakes his head disbelievingly. "Why-?"
"Why did I call your absence in, or why were you out for so long? If it's the latter, shame on you – tranq dart, you told me quite clearly you'd been shot. You're having trouble keeping up with yourself, and that's concerning, even for you. If it's the former, I called you in because I needed your help."
Sherlock pulls something out his pocket – a folded, aged piece of paper with uneven writing sprawled on one side. "Moriarty. I found the note – tangible proof - and I realized Faith Smith may not have come to see me about her father, but someone did. By the time I realized you'd never left your therapy session and got here to find out why, you were out. And alone. Except for the therapist in the cupboard. Someone went to great lengths to-"
"That someone – the one who visited you - was my therapist! Well, the woman who murdered the woman who was supposed to be my actual therapist." John gestures with his hands as he talks, his agitation growing. "Told me you had great taste in chips. She also claims to be your sister – and - "
Sherlock steps back, brow furrowed at this latest information. "Interesting…" he mutters, flipping the paper in his hand back and forth.
"-and – she was – the - " He sighs, looking at his feet before raising his eyes to meet Sherlock's, his expression serious. " – she was also the woman on the bus."
Sherlock's focus snaps from John to the paper and back again. "Miss me…" he mutters, frowning.
John folds his arms in front of his chest, looking Sherlock up and down. "This has something to do with Moriarty, then? Was she one of his 'hired men'? Er, women? Did she lie about being your sister, too, or is there actually some dirty family secret that no one's bothered to share with you?"
Sherlock's lips part, and he shakes his head, as though to clear it, before answering. "I don't know." He looks up at John, and John raises his eyebrows.
"I really don't!" Sherlock protests. "Never reveal a theory without first having all the facts. We are missing facts, here, John – so many facts. There is most definitely a connection to Moriarty – the note Not-Faith Smith left ties in with his video, but this new information is – unexpected." He frowns, walking toward the table beside the therapist's chair, and brushes his fingers against its surface.
John exhales abruptly. "Facts, then. Right. She wore contacts. And a wig. I mean – obviously, or I'd have recognized her right off – wouldn't I have? Don't answer that. And she – she can change her voice, Sherlock. Pretty convincingly. Accents and everything. And she fooled you twice-"
"-I was off my tits both times-" he dismisses, waving his hand -
"-Really? You were pretty keen, before, on chalking up your brilliant deduction of Smith to being 'off your tits', so I'm not sure why it would help you with that and not-"
"It's troubling, yes, we've determined that." Sherlock snaps, folding the paper in his hand and tucking it back into his pocket.
The friends stare around the room, the afternoon sun sinking in the sky and bathing it in golden light.
"Not that it's definitive proof, or anything," John says gruffly, "but her eyes are almost exactly like yours." Sherlock sighs, and John rubs the back of his neck. "And you have to admit, she was bloody brilliant at…whatever the hell it was, she was doing. So she's either related to Moriarty or you, because no way any normal human being could pull off being three different people for such a long time."
Sherlock nods. "Unfortunately, there are only three people who can confirm or deny the hypothesis that I have a sister, and only one of them would be able to do so without wasting time with unnecessary emotional overtones."
"Mycroft?" John asks.
"Mycroft." Sherlock sighs. "But if the woman was telling the truth-"
"Eurus." John interrupts again, remembering more. "Said her name was 'Eurus'. She said – she specifically said that it was Greek, for-"
"-The East Wind." Sherlock breathes, and his eyes widen and then narrow in concentration, before his lips part in shock. For the first time since John asked him to be his best man – he is speechless.
"Mmm. 'Dirty family secret' looking much more probable, now, isn't it?" John says slowly, thinking it through himself. "Though your parents don't seem the sort to-"
"Nope," Sherlock agrees. "This has Mycroft all over it. The problem is getting him to admit to it."
"Well, she's mad. Your sister. In the insane, psychopathic, apparently genius sort of way. If you have a sister, and Mycroft knows, he's been hiding her for a reason. And that story, about the terrifying East Wind that 'lays destruction to all in its path'?" John inclines his head and raises his eyebrows. "I think he's a little bit afraid of her. I think she might be smarter than him. She'd have to be, wouldn't she, to keep this-" he throws his arms wide, encompassing the whole mess they've just discovered – "from him?"
Sherlock raises an eyebrow at him.
John nods in Sherlock's direction. "He's not going to tell you the truth unless he's wetting himself."
Sherlock's lips tug up at the corners. "Are you suggesting-"
"-we make him piss himself? Absolutely."
Sherlock smirks. "I know just where to start."
"Are you sure?" John asks as Sherlock slides into the car beside him.
Sherlock's fingers are flying over his phone, already contacting resources to pull off their plan to force Mycroft's hand. "Absolutely. Bart's. Molly's working the night shift and I need blood."
"Blood?" John looks sideways at him and starts the car, easing out of the therapist's driveway and heading for the expressway.
"Mmm. The pig's blood the med students use should suffice. Bit thicker, as it's thawing. Better coagulation for a good 'tears of blood' effect. It'll only take Molly a minute."
John nods. "Are you going to tell her, then?"
Sherlock stops with his phone for just a moment and gives John a look that tells him he's said something incredibly stupid. "Yes, John, I think it's a grand idea to tell Molly that I may or may not have a sister who may or may not be a criminal genius who may or may not be connected to Moriarty, and to find out the truth? She'll definitely helps us carry out a plan to psychologically torture the brother she does know into confessing."
"So that's a no, then." John raises he eyebrows and refocuses on the road.
Sherlock snorts. "There you go. Took a while, but you're brain's working again. Still, better let me do the talking when we get to Molly."
John smirks. "Bugger off."
They drive for a bit, adrenaline causing John to swerve around the slower cars on the express with increasing agitation, pushing the speed limit as much as he dares. The only sound is Sherlock clicking away on his phone. They have a plan, now and he's ready to enact it.
They are halfway to Bart's when Sherlock pauses for a moment, frowning. "John- " he begins, and then cuts himself off.
"Yeah?" John glances at him.
"In therapy-" he hesitates for a moment.
"Yeah?" John asks again, frowning at a car going five under the speed limit in front of them.
"I assume you spoke of Mary?"
"Yes," John responds slowly.
"And Rosamund?"
"Yeah…should I be – forget I asked; of course I should be concerned - " His hands tighten on the steering wheel. He'd already called the sitters, to check on her and to tell them they'd have Rosie for the weekend, but maybe he should reconsider -
But Sherlock shakes his head. "She's at the sitters? The couple that runs a small all-hours day-care out of their home on Highcastle?"
"Yeah-" John gives him a questioning look. "Why-"
"They've been vetted. She's perfectly safe with them. And…"
John narrows his eyes at Sherlock, briefly. "What?"
Sherlock raises his eyebrows innocently. "She may be under surveillance. By both my network and, when he's free, one of Mycroft's agents. Lestrade may send an extra patrol 'round to check on things, occasionally – make sure the street stays quiet. For the time being, Rosamund's probably safest there, with – Frank and Nancy?" He looks at John for confirmation.
"Hank and Nina," John corrects, then sighs. "I want to be a bit put off about that, but I suppose I should thank you for it, now."
"You should." Sherlock responds, and continues matter-of-factly. "And me?"
John frowns, confused. "And you – what?"
"In therapy, did you discuss me?"
"Yes."
"Anyone else?"
"Mycroft, a bit."
"That all?"
John looks at him out of the corner of his eye, curiously. "I never mentioned Molly, if that's what you're asking. Well - just that one day she showed up with the ambulance."
Sherlock presses his lips together.
"Good."
"Pig's blood?" Molly asks, confused, holding a sterilized tray with a lung before her. John does his best to look anywhere but at what she's holding, but his eyes land on the cadaver – and he decides Molly is the safer bet. It's not that he's particularly disgusted by this – he's a doctor, after all – it just – seems – a sort of invasion of privacy of the deceased, to be staring at their innards when they weren't invited to. "Why on earth do you need that? It's all the way on the other side of the hospital. In the research wing."
"Yes." Sherlock's hands are clasped behind his back.
"I'm in the middle of an autopsy."
"Yes. Your timing, admittedly, isn't the best – but if you leave now, John and I will be out the door and out of your way in…less than fifteen minutes." He gives her a tight smile.
"My timing isn't the best?" Molly raises an eyebrow, incredulous, and glances at John. He shrugs and grimaces apologetically.
"Don't stress over it," Sherlock says, his tone clipped.
Molly snorts. "I'm not."
Sherlock inclines his head, taking in the deceased woman before him. "Unless, of course, you'd prefer to give us some of…Ms. Porter's blood?"
"Absolutely not!"
"What the hell, Sherlock?!"
Molly and John exclaim simultaneously, both giving the man standing between them a judgmental look.
Sherlock glances between them, narrowing his eyes in confusion. "Just trying to be considerate. It would save you – and us – eight minutes. It's not like she needs it anymore."
But Molly has already surrendered the fight, and so she places the tray on the worktable and walks to the sink to remove her apron, goggles, and gloves. As she washes up, she's just a bit too vigorous with the scrubbing, and John looks sideways at Sherlock.
"Err…" he says quietly. "Maybe we should just use fake blood, then?"
"No!" Sherlock screws up his face in disgust. "He'd notice that, and it would ruin the effect."
"Who would notice, then?" Molly asks just a bit too cheerfully, suspicion crowding her features.
"Mycroft," Sherlock replies innocently, schooling his features into an expression of indifference. "It's for him."
"Funny, I thought he usually preferred cake," she mutters, her lips quirking up at the corners.
John snorts – but while she would usually get at least a twitch of the lips from Sherlock, he remains stoic.
She turns toward her friends and crosses her hands in front of her. "So why does brother dear need pigs blood from the research wing at my hospital?"
Sherlock frowns. She usually doesn't question requests from Mycroft, because both brothers have asked her for far stranger, and more difficult, things than what he's currently asking of her – and she's usually more fond of his brother than what her last comment would suggest. And then he notices that her phone is not on its usual safe place on the counter – which means she's left it in her locker, and she only does that when her sister's called.
He smirks. "There, you see, John? She's not angry with us. She's peeved at her sister for calling and berating her for her love life…or lack thereof."
John looks between the two, a startled look on his face, but Molly is unfazed. She shifts her weight to one hip and tilts her head, unimpressed. "Actually, I'm just a bit peeved at you, too." It's obvious she's suppressing a smile, though, so neither man takes it too seriously.
Sherlock ignores her last comment. "I don't know why you don't take my advice and just ignore her. Block her number."
Molly snorts. "Well, I can see how well that works for you with Mycroft-"
John nods and inclines his head toward the detective, smirking. "She's got you there-"
"-Besides – though she is a giant pain in my arse, most of the time – she is my sister. I still love her."
"Poor excuse for having to love someone. You didn't choose to share DNA with her."
Molly snorts. "And suddenly you're an expert on all things love?"
"I've been told far too often it's a chemical defect found on the loosing side." He recites.
John and Molly exchange a look. Can you believe this idiot?
"What?" Sherlock notices their look, defensive.
"Well, I'd agree with you," Molly says sarcastically. Both men raise their eyebrows in surprise, and she smiles. "You've been told that rubbish far too often."
"Mmm," John agrees. "And for being a found on the 'loosing side', you're still here, aren't you, you bloody git? And I'm pretty sure the only reason you're still here is that we all lo-"
Molly sighs loudly, interrupting him. "Right. Pig's blood it is." She smiles uncertainly at John, and inclines her head toward Sherlock, who has drifted a bit closer to the body on the slab. "Don't let him touch anything. I'll – hey! Is that my jumper?!"
As Molly moves to the door to exit the morgue, she notices the bag Sherlock has in his hands, still clasped behind his back, and grabs at it.
"Also for the case," Sherlock explains.
"Absolutely not!" Molly protests. "What did – did you break into my locker, Sherlock? That's my spare outfit-" she grabs at the bag Sherlock is carrying on his arm, where she can see one of her old, ratty jumpers and a skirt that only sort-of matches.
"-in case of emergency," Sherlock says, pulling the bag protectively closer to himself. "And it is an emergency. As I explained earlier, time is of the essence."
Molly narrows her eyes at him. "What on earth could you possibly need my emergency clothes for? Dressing in drag? Because-"
"Of course not," Sherlock wrinkles his nose. "We could do much better if that were our goal-"
Molly's mouth drops open, but it is more of shock and frustration than offense.
"-but one of my network will be, and your style is deliberately juvenile, and that is what we're going for, in – less than two hours, now - hence the need for the clothes. You haven't used them in years, why are you suddenly so protective of them?"
"Because they're mine, you didn't ask, and if it's someone from your 'network' using it for one of your games, you can give them a few pounds and send them to a thrift store." She pulls the bag off of Sherlock's arm, and after resisting for a moment, he sighs and lets her have it. "Besides," she sniffs delicately. "I still like this jumper. It's comfortable. And if I need to use my emergency outfit because a corpse oozed gunk all over me, or exploded into bloody bits, I want something comfortable."
"Gunk," he mumbles, only barely suppressing an eye roll. "How well you showcase your scientific prowess, Molly Hooper. But we really do need the blood. Quickly. It's imperative to the success of our case. We need to be out the door in - " he checks his phone – "ten minutes, if we're to meet my network and enact the plan in time."
"The case that has to do with Mycroft? What exactly is going on?" She eyes him suspiciously. Now she's noticing something's off. The requests he's made tonight are outside his usual scope of odd, and he's – well - jittery. Like he was with Moriarty, and at John's wedding, and with the whole Mary – thing – before she left. Like he's fitting pieces together, but he's missing a few, and he's desperate to complete the puzzle.
Sherlock and John exchange a look, and Sherlock shakes his head slightly. He turns back to her, with a guarded expression on his face. "It may have something to do with the Moriarty footage," he says, and stares at her with what's meant to be an open expression.
He's not telling the truth – not the whole truth, anyway – but she knows that the video fiasco from earlier in the year had still not been fully resolved, and so, warily, she agrees.
"I suppose, if it has to do with Moriarty-" she says slowly.
"Yes." Sherlock raises his eyebrows expectantly.
"-and as long as you promise I won't be implicated in anything involving national security-"
"Yes, yes, as always, you and your job are secure, rock-solid, unquestionable, now please do stop wasting time, Molly Hooper. We have exactly seventy-five minutes to enact my plan, and if we don't have the blood thawed to the proper temperature, it will not - it will not be as useful as it needs to be."
Molly frowns at him, prickly at the suggestion that she is the one wasting his time. "Wait here. Don't touch anything," she warns.
"Thank you," he replies. She pushes through the doors, and Sherlock takes a step toward the body on the slab, again.
"Don't touch anything!" She repeats -
And though the two men don't realize it, she looks back over her shoulder, just in time to see them look from the swinging door to each other, exchanging grins and a private joke.
Part of it makes her want to grin as well – because they're back, properly together again, the best of friends she's ever had the privilege of knowing, in this world - but part of it makes her heart sink – just a little – because it would appear she's back on the sidelines, again.
Molly Hooper, who matters to Sherlock Holmes – but only matters most when he's counting on her for something.
Molly's brows draw together as she fumbles with her keys. It had been a busy night, with an extra body coming in to the morgue, and more paperwork besides. And while Sherlock's interruption was quick, he seemed a bit more touchy than she'd recently grown accustomed to – insulting her clothing style and insinuating that she'd been wasting time.
Still, she shakes it off easily enough. If the case really is connected to Moriarty, then it explains his focus on results and efficiency and lack of manners. It's a sign he's using that brain of his to focus on problems and puzzles, instead of social cues and politeness.
She is glad she has the next two days off. After a quick shower, she falls into bed and into sleep quickly enough.
She wakes several hours later to the constant ringing of her phone.
She blinks groggily, and rolls over to see that it's only ten in the morning. She's only been asleep a few hours, and groans with irritation that she'd forgotten to put her phone on silent.
She pulls her phone from the bedside table and peers at it, sleepily brushing a strand of hair from her eyes.
All of the missed calls are from her sister.
Molly wrinkles her nose and closes her eyes, letting her head hit the pillow with a soft thunk. With one bleary eye open, she unlocks the screen and attempts to silence her notifications.
Several texts come in at once.
Molly, I'm sorry about yesterday, please answer. – MY
I know you're mad at me, but if you're okay, PLEASE ANSWER. –MY
I know you might be asleep, but please, PLEASE answer as soon as you get this. –MY
I need to know you're okay. –MY
At this, Molly sits upright in bed, brows furrowed in concern. Meghan might be an over-dramatic pain-in-the-arse most of the time, but this is not like her. She waits a few moments, but nothing else comes in. Oh my gosh, Molly thinks. No threats to call the police and file a missing persons report. No threats to call Aunt Nan. She's actually waiting for me to call back. It's completely unnerving, and Molly would think something's happened to Meghan – except her texts explicitly ask if Molly is okay.
This, of course, prompts Molly to swing her feet down onto the floor and shuffle into the living room to call her sister back. Toby raises his head from his spot on the sofa and opens one eye, before settling back to sleep. Molly flips the television on to see if there's been some sort of accident – or God forbid, attack – in London, to prompt her sister's uncharacteristic apology. She mutes the television, and dials her sister.
Meghan picks up after two rings. "Molly, thank God," she cries. "You're okay. You're fine. You are fine?" She exhales loudly, and Molly can hear a distinctive sniff on the other side of the line.
"Yeah, I'm fine, Meghan," Molly replies gently. "What's happened? Why were you so worried?"
Meghan laughs nervously. "You mean you don't know? It's on the news, Molly. There's been an explosion-"
And Molly is flipping through the stations, passing weather reports and commercials and children's morning programmes until she reaches a news station that is broadcasting what her sister is talking about.
The hand holding her phone to her ear falls into her lap, and her lips part, stunned.
Baker Street is in flames.
Well, not the whole street.
Just one flat in particular.
221 Baker Street.
Goosebumps break out on her arms and neck, and for a moment, all she can hear is a slight buzzing sound, and then the shock wears off and she unmutes the television so that she can focus on what the reporter is saying.
"-at approximately eight this morning, an explosion occurred at 221 Baker Street, home of the famous consulting detective, Sherlock Holmes. As you can see, firefighters are still battling the blaze. At this time, only one victim has been reported. Sources tell us that a man meeting the detective this morning has been admitted to the hospital with life-threatening injuries, and remains in critical condition. We are unsure at this time of the identity of said man, or of the whereabouts of the detective and other resident of the home. Luckily, there seems to be no damage to adjoining-"
"-Molly? Molly! Are you there? Molly, I'm here, if you need to talk-"
Molly stares at the phone in her hand, her sister's voice calling her out of her reverie. She swallows, and brings the phone to her ear again.
"I'm – I'm sorry, Meghan. I'm going to have to call you back."
She barely hears Meghan's reply as she runs to her bedroom, throwing on clothing haphazardly and pulling her hair up into a ponytail. She pulls on her shoes and jacket and coat, and grabs her phone from where she's left it on the couch. She has one text message, from Meghan.
It's okay. Let me know what's happened. Love you. –MY
Molly feels a rare, sudden rush of affection and gratitude for her big sister, and responds quickly before closing the door behind her, and making her way out into the world to discover what has happened to Baker Street and her friends.
Love you too. – MH
"Come on, come on, pick up, pick up!" Molly hisses into her phone.
She's tried Sherlock, first, of course – she didn't expect him to answer, but she was hoping. She texts him, next, asking what happened, if he's all right, and if there's anything she can do.
John was next, but he didn't answer either. She texts him, worried, and when he doesn't respond – concern creeps up her from the pit of her stomach. Even when they're on a case, he'll usually text – and if there's something big, something like a bloody explosion at Baker Street – something that gets news coverage - he almost always sends some form of communication letting her know they're all right.
He doesn't, this time.
There's no guarantee, of course, that he was even at Baker Street, but considering their request last evening, and the case they were working on last night – the anxiety creeps up her throat, now, and makes it difficult to leave a message.
"John, it's Molly. I've heard about Baker Street. Are you all right? Is Rosie all right? What – well, please, just let me know if you're okay. Just a text is fine if you're on a case. Thanks."
She tries Mrs. Hudson, next, and hope that she'd at least get through to the affectionate older woman bursts as she gets yet another voicemail box. She leaves a message and sends a text, and by then, she's reached Baker Street – or as close as she can get, with all of the traffic and onlookers from the explosion.
It takes her a few minutes, but she winds her way through the crowd until she reaches the blockade, manned by a police officer she hasn't met from Scotland Yard.
"Keep it clear, miss, keep it clear," he states, and she bites her lip.
"What happened?" She blurts, eyes darting about the scene before her. Smoke is billowing freely, now, and though a few flames are still smoldering, she can see the fire department has successfully put out most of the fire. Her heart sinks as she sees the gaping hole in the wall, where Sherlock's sitting room would be, and she blinks rapidly, though there are no tears – it's like she just can't believe what she's seeing, and if she blinks enough, the scene before her will revert to what it once was – how it should be. She is grateful that it is Sunday, and that Speedy's is closed, because the windows to the shop have blown out, as well.
"'Sbeen an explosion," he explains monotonously. "Keep back sir!" He barks at one man, who's leaning over the barricade in an attempt to record video of the event on his mobile.
Molly frowns. "Well, I know that, sir, but I'm Molly Hooper, I'm a friend of Sherlock's, and-"
The officer laughs in her face. "Sure you are, miss. Everyone's a friend of Sherlock Holmes when they're looking for a story. Behind the line, there's a good girl, and we'll make a statement soon enough – though I've heard tell from the higher ups that it's just a gas leak."
She takes a step back and presses her lips into a thin line. "Gas leak my arse," she mutters angrily, and turns on her heel. It was stupid to come here, anyway. As if Sherlock would just be hanging about, watching the blaze be put out. She checks her phone for any missed messages – none – and calls Rosie's sitter, praying that someone will at least answer her there. She'll head to Scotland Yard, next, and hopefully Greg – or someone else who recognizes her – will be able to tell her what happened.
"Hello, Nina speaking."
"Nina!" Molly sighs in relief. "It's Molly. Molly Hooper, Rosie Watson's godmother? I've been round a few times to drop Rosie off or pick her up for John?"
"Yes, hello Ms. Hooper! How can I help you?"
"I was wondering – is Rosie there today?"
"Well, yes, she is. And a little ball of sunshine, too. Obviously feeling a lot better, now. Is there a problem?"
"Oh – nothing, nothing," Molly reassures her. "Just, um – I think I told John I'd pick Rosie up for him this evening, and I – I have to work," she lies.
"Oh, don't worry, dear. John told us we'd have Rosie the whole weekend, and possibly Monday as well. Probably has a lot of work to catch up on, after her being sick so long. We're glad to have her back."
"Oh, good, thank you," Molly answers distractedly, saying good-bye before hanging up.
At least Rosie is safe.
But she still knows absolutely nothing about Sherlock, John, or even Mrs. Hudson.
She supposes no news – and no bodies – are good news, but she's still worried and uneasy and can't shake the feeling that she may be the only one left, to pick Rosie up on Monday.
She knew what she signed up for when becoming Rosie's godmother, but she never thought she'd be faced with a situation like this, so suddenly. Though she still doesn't have any answers, she knows that probability indicates Sherlock, John, and Mrs. Hudson are at least alive, if not safe on some case somewhere – but it doesn't stop her from feeling very much alone at the moment.
Scotland Yard is bustling with activity, as always. Greg, at least, had responded to her text, and promised to meet her at the front desk as soon as he gets in.
She sits on a bench, and only has to wait ten minutes before he strides in, pitching an empty coffee cup into the rubbish bin next to the front desk. His eyes are dark and his face is drawn, and he runs a hand across the stubble on his chin.
Molly stands and offers him a quick hug, which he receives willingly. "How're you holding up?" He asks her, holding her at arm's length.
She frowns. "I'll be a lot better once someone can tell me what's going on with Sherlock and John."
"Wouldn't we all!" He lets out a short laugh at that, and gestures for her to follow him to his office. She quickens her steps to keep up with him, and he motions for her to sit, if she likes, once they reach the room.
"No thanks," she says, crossing her arms in front of her chest. "Just tell me what you know, Greg."
He sighs and shakes his head, pressing his palms onto his paper-cluttered desk. "Not bloody enough, I'll tell you that." He looks up and gives her a searching look. "What do you know?"
"Nothing!" She shrugs vehemently, picking at her jumper. "Absolutely nothing. They come to me at work last night, asking for pigs blood and telling me it relates to Mycroft, and possibly Moriarty, and that's the last I hear from them until this morning, when my sister calls in a tizzy because she thinks I've been blown up with Sherlock's flat. What do you know? Are they all right? Is Mrs. Hudson all right? What's going on?"
Greg grimaces. "I don't know."
Molly looks up at him, stricken but unsurprised, and he sighs, returning her gaze for a moment. He then straightens and walks to the door, poking his head out to look around before shutting it carefully and coming back to lean against the edge of his desk. He crosses his arms, and studies the floor for a moment. "We're reporting it as a gas leak."
Molly snorts, and Greg's lips turn up a bit at the corners. "That's official, from higher up than I can ever hope of reaching. Unofficially?" He looks up at her, her brows drawn together, worried. "It was a bomb. On a drone. Very high-tech. Patience grenade, I've heard, though I wasn't supposed to hear that. But supposedly, it was altered? Didn't seem to do as much damage as the high-and-mighty brass thought it should've. Anyway, by the time we get there, no one's there but us first responders. Police, fire crew – no sign of them – Sherlock, John, Mrs. Hudson - no bodies – and that's something, isn't it? And then a big black car pulls up, and there's talk of Mycroft and that bomb, and the Yard is dismissed to blockade duty until further notice, and that's all I know."
Molly bites her lip. "Have you heard from Mrs. Hudson?"
Greg sighs, shaking his head. "No, and that's what worries me most. It isn't unlike Sherlock – or even John – to just disappear – but Mrs. Hudson – she'd usually let us know she's all right, wouldn't she?"
"What about Mycroft?" Molly's voice is low.
Greg exhales slowly. "There's reports – chatter – nothing confirmed – that a man matching his description was rushed to a hospital in critical condition-"
Molly sucks in breath –
"-but I can't seem to confirm that with any hospital in the area. No John Does, no patients that arrived this morning with critical injuries matching an explosion – nothing." He scowls at the blinking light on the phone on his desk, signaling he's got messages – and lots of them.
They stand in silence for a moment, both working through things in their minds.
"You think he's faked it, then?" Molly asks softly.
"Mycroft?"
Molly nods.
Greg runs a hand through his hair again, and it's been too long since he's gotten a trim, because little bits of it stay sticking out at funny angles. "I want to say yes – that he leaked a false report about himself being in hospital - but it's not like him, to be so half-arsed about it, is it? I mean, if it was him – if it was part of a plan of his all along-"
"-there'd be an unrecognizable body somewhere in hospital, and not just a report floating about?" Molly finishes his thought, agreeing with him.
"Something's off, and I don't like it," Greg says, and his voice is low.
"So you've heard nothing about John and Sherlock, either?" Molly asks again, because she has to be sure.
"Nothing. Sorry, Molly." Greg looks at her apologetically.
"Not your fault." Molly offers him a sideways smile.
They are interrupted by a knock at the door, and a Sergeant pokes his head in. "Sorry to interrupt, Inspector, but we've got a call about a death on Hill Street. Looks to be routine, but need you there."
"Got it. Be ready to go in five." Greg steps away from his desk and places his hands in his pockets, looking her up and down. "You all right?"
Molly sighs. "Yeah. I'll keep trying to get ahold of one of them. Rosie's fine for now, at her usual sitter's. Thanks, Greg."
"Anytime, Molly. Call me if you hear anything. D'you want a ride? You live on Hill, don't you?" He holds the door open for her, and shuts is as they exit.
"No, thanks," Molly says politely. "It's a long street, and it's probably nowhere near my place. I could use a walk to clear my head."
"Right. Be safe, then, yeah?"
She nods, and they go their separate ways.
She was hoping her conversation with Greg would be more reassuring, but she is left feeling more anxious and helpless than she was before – and if she's being honest, she's starting to get angry.
As she walks toward home, she tries all three of them again – Sherlock, John, and Mrs. Hudson. Once again, she is met with the voicemail message for all three. She stops at St. James Park, because despite being a pretty bloody awful day so far, it's quite nice out. She absent-mindedly places her hands in the pockets of her jacket as she sits on a bench for a rest, and her fingers close around a business card.
Pulling it out, she realizes it's the card Sherlock gave her, all those weeks ago, with a number to call if she needed help in procuring an ambulance. It had been a number she'd assumed was somehow linked to Mycroft and his resources, and - because what could it hurt? – she dials the number.
A nondescript voice answers, and she asks after Mycroft, and mentions Sherlock. Thus begins a very frustrating twenty minute phone relay, in which she is transferred and placed on hold and given new numbers to call numerous times and tells several different white lies in an attempt to find out any information at all.
She finally reaches a woman who claims to be Mycroft's personal secretary. "Hello," the woman states, voice all business, absent of the careful politeness that Molly remembers from her last interaction with her.
"Hello," Molly says, sitting up a bit straighter. "My name is Moll-"
"Molly Hooper, yes, I am familiar." Her even voice gives no inclination as to the opinion the speaker holds on her.
"Um – right. Right," Molly knows the woman can't see her, but she straightens visibly, and smooths her free hand on her trousers. "I'm calling in regard to Mycroft, and Sherlock." There is silence on the other end of the line, and so she continues. "I've seen what's happened to Baker Street, and Sherlock came to me last night asking for help with a case involving Moriarty – and Mycroft – and now I'm hearing that Mycroft's been injured, but I can't seem to find out where he's been taken. I'd like – I'd like to visit him, if possible."
"I'm sorry, that information is classified."
"Look, y- he knows me! Mycroft knows me! I'm Sherlock's friend, I helped with – with Operation Lazarus – I need – please – just - tell me if they're all right. Is John all right? I'm his daughter's godmother – and – Mrs. Hudson? Where is she?"
"Please hold." The woman's voice drawls.
Molly bunches the fabric of her jacket in her fist as she waits for a response. In just a few moments, she hears the line pick up, and a new woman is on the line.
"Molly Hooper?" This voice is more familiar, and more friendly, now.
"Yes?" Molly asks, sitting on the edge of the bench.
"It's Anthea."
"Anthea!" Molly sighs with relief. She remembers the name, and the woman, from Sherlock's fall. She trusts her, and knows she'll get some sort of answer, even if it's not exactly what she wants to hear. "Anthea, can you tell me-"
"Molly," Anthea interrupts firmly, but her voice is kind. "You know we have highly valued your assistance in the past. You are an irreplaceable part of Sherlock's team. However, your involvement in current events would be unnecessary and poses a security risk that Mycroft is unwilling to take at this time. The Holmes brothers, and Dr. Watson, thank you for your concern, and reassure you that everything is taken care of at this time."
It savors strongly of a politically correct platitude, and Molly thinks she's beginning to truly understand how John felt, when he found out he'd been excluded from Sherlock's Lazarus plan. She is satisfied that they are alive and on a case, but she can't help but ask –
"Mrs. Hudson? Is – is she-?"
"Martha Hudson is alive and well, and suffered no injuries from the explosion caused by the gas leak. Her phone, however, is unavailable to her, due to the blast. She is currently visiting a Mr. Abernathy, and that is all I can tell you at this time."
Molly sighs, but she's not sure if it's with relief or frustration. "Thank you-" she begins, but is interrupted.
"And Ms. Hooper? I'm sorry, but – please refrain from mentioning Operation Lazarus in the future. I understand you are worried about your friends, but it is imperative you do not mention it again."
There is a pause, and Molly's face is red with embarrassment at being chastised for her slip. "I understand," she whispers.
"Thank you. And I must insist that you please refrain from contacting Mycroft, Sherlock, or Dr. Watson further. Their case is a sensitive one, and it would not do to disturb them. They will contact you when they are ready, if at all."
"Right," Molly says, not bothering to hide the bitter note in her voice. "But – Moriarty?"
"You know very well he is dead, thanks to your help, Ms. Hooper. I assure you, your friends are not in danger from him, wherever they may be – and neither are you. And now, if you'll excuse me-"
"Thank you, Anthea."
They are disconnected, and Molly stares at her phone for a moment. A variety of emotions flicker across her face – anger, hurt, relief, resignation – and she presses her lips together in a thin line. She places a quick call to Greg and leaves a message that their friends are alive – all of them, she emphasizes, though she doesn't name them, specifically – and that they are on a case, and that is all she's managed to discover.
She runs her thumb across the number on the card before stuffing it back into her pocket, along with her phone.
It's a long walk home, and she tires of it before she even gets halfway.
As the cab she hailed to finish the trip home draws closer to her flat, traffic gets worse. Her stomach sinks as she sees the ambulance and police cars in the distance, parked just a few doors past her own.
Mr. Girard, she thinks sadly, and pays the cabbie to let her out. She walks the last block to her door, and sees them loading the body bag into the ambulance. Greg must still be inside, or perhaps it was so cut-and-dry that he's left already, because she doesn't recognize any of the officers around as him. She thinks that perhaps she should go down to see if Trish is there, to offer some comfort – surely if her grandfather took a sudden turn, she'd have stayed? - but decides against it. She's in no mood to offer sympathy and she could really, really use a cup of tea, right about now.
She can always send a gifts basket later.
And so, she locks the door behind her, and lines her shoes up neatly beside the door, and hangs her jacket up in the front closet. Toby comes running out of the back bedroom to greet her, and she pats him affectionately on the head and gives him a treat.
She's just put the kettle on and taken out an orange to cut, to go with it, when her phone rings from her coat pocket, and she nearly trips over herself to reach it, hoping it's someone – anyone – from Baker Street.
It's her sister.
Molly closes her eyes and answers. "Hello?"
"Hi, Molly," Meghan says, and her voice is subdued. "I'm sorry to hear about your friend. They're saying a man's been admitted to hospital? In critical condition?"
Molly stares ahead for moment, face unreadable. She thinks that perhaps the worst thing about being involved with the Holmes' men is the lying – lying for them, lying about them, lying to others to try to find out what's happened to them – lying to herself about the intensity of her feelings for one, in particular.
But Meghan isn't exactly the person she'd want to share her secrets with, anyway, and so she lies, once again, for them. "Not Sherlock – or John. A client."
"Oh, that's – still too bad, but – good, as well?" Meghan tries carefully.
"Yes," Molly agrees tiredly. "It's good."
"So what happened?"
Molly sighs. "They're reporting it as a gas leak."
Meghan pauses for a moment, and Molly smiles, just a bit, because she can imagine the completely incredulous look on her sister's face, and for once – it's nice to think of it as directed at someone other than herself. When Meghan speaks next, her voice is even but cynical. "Mmm. Seems to be an awful lot of gas leaks on that street. You'd think city planning would have something to say about that, by now."
Molly laughs. "You'd think, wouldn't you?" she agrees.
Meghan sighs. "Well, I'm glad they're all right. How long did it take you to contact them? It's been a while since I talked to you, this morning. Do they need anything? The baby wasn't there, was she?"
The kettle goes off, and Molly moves to remove it from the stove. "Um, no – I mean – Rosie wasn't there, she's fine, and – I'm sure they don't need anything." She tries to avoid admitting that she hasn't actually spoken to any of them, but Meghan is having none of that.
"What do you mean, you're 'sure they don't need anything'? It destroyed half the flat! Didn't you talk to them about it?"
Molly turns and stares blankly at her sofa, and her silence is enough of an answer for her sister.
"Damn, Molly. You mean they didn't call you? They didn't – you didn't get to talk to them? And yet you know they're all right? How'd you find that out – please tell me the git didn't just text you. Or did he not even give you that courtesy? Sherlock have a secretary or something now? Someone passing on messages – 'oh, they're fine, can't be bothered to return your call, but they're bloody fine.'? For being such good friends – Molly – that's pretty bloody low of them." Meghan's voice is seething with anger.
And Molly has nothing to say to that, because it's true.
But, as always, Meghan has to take it one too far. "At least Tom would've had the decency to call you himself if his flat bloody blew up."
Molly draws in a sharp intake of breath, and Meghan is unapologetic. "It's true," she protests – "and you know it, Molly."
Molly lets out a short bark of laughter. "If Tom's flat blew up, I doubt he'd be alive to call me himself. But thank you, once again, Meghan, for mixing compassion and condescension. You do that so well."
There is silence for a moment, and then Meghan replies, tetchily. "You're stressed, Molly, and understandably so. I'm going to pretend I didn't just hear that. You take a bath, or have a nice cuppa, or take a nap, or whatever it is you need to do to relax. And when you're ready, we can talk about why you're redirecting all your anger at me, instead of who really deserves it."
And Molly is met with the silence of an abruptly ended call. "Well," she mutters to herself. "I can't argue with that, can I?" She sets her phone on the counter and turns, crossing the room to the sink, staring out the window at the lovely day that depicts the polar opposite of what she's feeling. She runs her hands over the edge where the counter meets the cool metal surface. And then Molly Hooper bows her head over the sink, and cries.
Her phone rings again not fifteen minutes later, and she lifts her head from her hands at the sink, sniffs, and turns to see who it is.
Sherlock, the phone screen states proudly – Sherlock.
And yet – don't waste your time.
Don't disturb them.
They'll call you, when the time is right.
If at all.
The words should be easy to forget, but the feelings attached to them – not so much.
She knows it's childish, but she crosses the floor to her orange instead of answering, and begins slicing.
See how he likes it, being ignored. Only responding when it's convenient for him.
She'll be all right by tomorrow, ready to forgive him and hear all about this mysterious case. She'll call them out for worrying her, and then she'll hear from Sherlock, and mostly John, just exactly why no one could call and let her know that they were all alive and that she didn't need to start moving Rosie into her flat. There'll be excuses and reasons, and she's sure they will be good ones - but for now – she wants to nurse her wounds in private.
Her shoulders sag in relief when the call disconnects, and then tense again, immediately, when it rings again. She takes her frustration out on the orange slice, squeezing it mercilessly into a teacup beside the cutting board, but it only lasts a moment before she dries her fingers on a towel and stares at the phone's caller ID, again.
Sherlock.
He doesn't call often, and he never calls twice.
Something unwanted has settled, hard and uneasy, in her stomach. She considers ignoring this call, as well.
But it's Sherlock.
Taking a fortifying breath, she answers.
"Hello, Sherlock, is this urgent – 'cause I'm not having a good day." She hopes he can hear the tired, pointed sarcasm in her voice. She's about to continue – tell him exactly why her day has been Not Good, and what she thinks about his cases and games making it that way – but he doesn't give her the chance.
"Molly," he states rapidly, and she can tell from his voice that wherever he is, the game is still on. "I just want you to do something very easy for me, and not ask why."
And her anger spikes, just a bit. Of course he wants something – and that something includes her unquestioning cooperation, and there's only about a fifty percent chance that it will actually be easy. She recalls the pig's blood, and his attempted theft of her clothing. "Is this one of your stupid games?"
"No, it's not a game. I…need you to help me."
She swallows, moving to stare dejectedly down at the tea things in front of her. "I'm not at the lab."
"It's not about that." It's like he can barely wait for her to finish her sentence before jumping on top of her words with his own.
She fiddles with some things on the counter, restless, waiting for him to get on with it so that she can do what needs to be done, yet again - be his lifeguard, pull him out of whatever it is he's gotten himself into. "Well, quickly then."
For how rushed he sounded seconds ago, he is silent now. "Sherlock? What is it? What do you want?" She can't hide the frustration in her voice.
"Molly, please – without asking why, just say these words."
And her brows draw together, just a bit – and her mouth tugs up at the corners with curiosity – because this is new. Perhaps she got lucky, and this will be an easy one. "What words?"
"I love you."
Her face drops in shock, and she stares at the phone in her hand.
Her finger moves automatically to disconnect the call, hovering over the button, recalling his calloused attitude about love in the morgue, yesterday, parroting the rubbish Mycroft always tells him. Did it spark some sort of morbid curiosity in him, curiosity that couldn't be satisfied until he'd called to ask her that while on his case – one so important he couldn't bother to let her know he'd survived his flat being bombed?
She pictures him, waiting for some vital part of the case that requires patience he's run out of, boredom driving him to call her about this.
"Leave me alone," she says, and the tears come back.
She's been hiding in it, for so long – content and comfortable, blanketed in their friendship. She's wrapped it around herself and used it to hide her true feelings – that burning, brilliant part of her heart that is his, held closest to her very soul - and over time, she's even been able to ignore those feelings herself, fairly easily. Because she loves him, of course she does – friends love each other, don't they? She's just – being a good, loving friend. It's what she's told herself as she saved specimens for him in the lab, and washed his clothes before putting them in the spare drawer at her place, and helping with his 'plan' to save his friendship with John. It's what she's told herself when she'd come home from her shift and he'd be sleeping in her bed. She's comforted herself with the white lie that this is what friends do, when she'd come home and Toby was fed and there were dirty cups in the sink. And he's eaten it up – he's been very happy to take what she's given him under the guise of being friends. Their friendship has sheltered her, protected her – allowed her love to grow, relatively unhindered - and now – now, for some unknown, godforsaken reason, he wants to rip it away. He wants to reveal the biggest, most brilliantly sensitive part of her heart, and she loves him – but she doesn't trust him, not with this. She'll trust him with anything but this.
But then he's – he's almost shouting at her – "Molly, no, please no – don't hang up! Do not hang up!"
Something in his voice makes her pause, and she brings the phone back to her ear. "Why are you doing this to me?" She takes a shaky breath in. "Why are you making fun of me?"
Because that's what it is, it has to be. Why on earth would he need to hear her say that? And why her? He could call any woman – Mrs. Hudson, his mother – and they'd probably say it easily – he could call any bloody woman in London - hell, he could probably call Janine and she'd laugh at him for it, but still, she'd say it -
"Please, I swear, you just have to listen to me." He sounds…not okay – but it's so hard to tell if it's real, when it's just his voice – when she can't see him.
"Molly, this is for a case. It's ... it's a sort of experiment." He is patronizing her. She's heard that forced calm, that forced patience before – it's just – this is the first time it's been directed at her in ages.
And the unwanted thing in her chest grows harder and colder, and so does her voice. "I'm not an experiment, Sherlock."
"No, I know you're not an experiment," he rushes to correct himself, and she frowns. "You're my friend. We're friends."
And his voice, in that instant, makes her heart flutter –
"But ... please. Just ... say those words for me." His voice is stronger, now – forceful.
She doesn't really know what she's feeling at the moment, because it's all mixed together in one awful emotional soup.
"Please don't do this. Just ... just ... don't do it."
She doesn't ask for much. She's never asked him for much. But she's asking something very simple from him, now.
"It's very important. I can't say why, but I promise you it is." He sounds sincere – but – why wouldn't he say why, unless it's for a reason he knows she'll disapprove of?
It was 'important' to interrupt her autopsy for blood and steal her emergency clothes, as well, and to have her bedroom because he needed the space, and to keep his secret from John after he fell – and she's tired of doing things just because he says they're important.
"I can't say that. I can't ... I can't say that to you." Her voice breaks, and she shakes her head, just a bit, even though she knows he can't see her.
"Of course you can. Why can't you?" He sounds cold and confused and…desperate?
She's not surrendering this battle so easily, because she's told so many lies for him – but her undoing will be in telling him the truth – this truth.
"You know why."
"No, I don't know why." Sherlock's voice is tremulous, and he sounds stubborn and almost – angry, now.
It may have been obvious to everyone else, but it's been a secret to him. A secret she clutches closely to her herself, and is unwilling to let go, though she feels her resolve slipping.
"Of course you do." She sniffs in frustration, pressing her hand to the countertop. She is pleading with him, but her voice matches his.
"Please, just say it."
All the 'pleases' in the world won't make her say it, unless she decides it's important enough to potentially loose their friendship over.
Because - if she admits this to him, it might be all he sees in her, from now on. He'll look at her and instead of seeing a friend – a strong, clever, faithful friend – he will see a woman so desperate for his love that she's risked her career and relationships to please him.
She will be a chemical defect, found on the losing side.
"I can't. Not to you."
"Why?" It's one hard little word, but it hits her like a gust of wind, and the comforting blanket of their friendship falls a little looser on the shoulders of her soul.
"Because ..." Molly looks down at the counter. "Because it's…"
She lets the security of their friendship, their easy camaraderie, fall away, and she is exposed, before him.
"... because it's… true."
There is silence on the other end, and she dreads what revealing this will do to him. To her. To them.
She is almost whispering now. "Because ... it's ..." she gasps, and her efforts not to cry have failed " …true."
His name leaves her lips as a sob. "Sherlock. It's always been true."
The heart of her is barren before the man she loves, though she still clutches it, and those three words he's asking her to say, tightly to her chest.
"Well, if it's true, just say it anyway." He's using his logic voice – the cold, factual voice he uses when deducing crime scenes – and he's using it on her.
She hates how he's making her feel like she's the one being stupid, when he's just altered their relationship in the span of two minutes, and for what? For what?
She laughs, short and disbelieving. "You bastard."
"Say it anyway." He's commanding her, now – but –
He's laid her bare, and she wants them on equal ground. She wants him to understand that this is bigger and heavier than finding a body that looks like his or bringing an ambulance to a mystery house – it's almost as heavy as lying to John for two years.
And she knows how to make him understand just what he's asking of her.
"You say it. Go on. You say it first."
She's not asking him for anything other than what he's asking of her. In fact, for the first time, she's asking for a sacrifice, from him, of equal value. He wants an experiment? Fine. He can be the control.
"What?" He can't believe it, and she knows she's won.
"Say it." She lowers her voice. "Say it like you mean it."
Because she'll mean it – and now they both have to live with that.
" I-I ..."
It surprises her that he tries, immediately.
"I love you."
It's painful and forced, but he's done what she's asked –he's thrust the words, roughly, into her hands, and she accepts them, because she knows they're at least partly true, even if they're pulled from him unwillingly, even if they're not meant the way she means them, the way -
"I love you."
It is the second one that twists her face in pain, causing her to pull the phone from her face and wish desperately that she could see his, because it is the second one that breathes life into the thing in her hands, and – and -
"Molly?" He asks.
- and if he's acting, he's putting on the best show she's ever heard. And if he's this desperate to make her say it – she'll give it to him.
"Molly, please."
And so she cradles the phone to her lips, so close it's as though she's breathing the words onto his skin -
"I love you."
-and she releases, reluctantly, on those three words, that part of her heart to the only man for whom those words have been fully, completely true -
And there is the loud and deafening silence of a call disconnected.
-but there is no one there to receive it, and she watches, humiliated and miserable, as it falls before her.
The highlighted portion of his name is red on the screen of her phone.
She stares at what he's given her, in place of it, and cannot tell if it is genuine or a cheap imitation meant to placate her.
She closes her eyes and breathes.
I love you.
Funny how winning feels an awful lot like losing, with Sherlock.
A/N: Thank you so much for reading, and follows, favorites, and reviews are love! I squee with excitement when I see those little counters move up. A huge thank you to the anonymous reviewers. I cannot respond to you in person, so I respond to you now: You make me smile and inspire me. Thank you for your encouragement!
Next chapter will include more Eurus, the call from Sherlock's point of view, and I will also attempt to fill in the plot holes that lead Greg and the calvary to Musgrave.