CHAPTER SEVEN

As he entered the interrogation room, Greg held the folder underneath his arm, placing it on the table between himself and Maryann Thompsen.

"D'you know why you're here, Maryann?" He asked, sitting on the chair opposite her.

The librarian shook her head. "Afraid not, Detective Inspector."

With this, Greg opened the folder, placing photographed stills of the video on the table.

Maryann gasped slightly, looking quite seasick. "Oh, my God. How did you get this? She…she had a camera?"

Feeling somewhat sorry for her, he shook his head. "No. Somehow, her murderer filmed it."

Maryann seemed to freeze instantaneously. "Is he after me now?"

"No," Greg shook his head. "He doesn't seem to go after the girls' romantic attachments."

"We weren't romantically attached." Maryann said all too quickly.

"Sexually attached, then."

"I'm not gay." Maryann said, shaking her head frantically. "I'm not."

"I don't really care about your sexual preference. You lied in an interview with the police. You know how that makes you look?"

Maryann cringed. "I know. I'm not exactly proud of what happened, is all."

"What exactly happened, then?"

"I was feeling sorry for her," Maryann explained. "She seemed so alone. So I asked her if she wanted to go to a pub or something. I wasn't really asking her out. I had no idea."

Greg pressed his lips together, nodding for her to continue, and crossed his arms across his chest.

"Well," She coughed with a dry throat. "We had a few drinks. She told me she fancied me…and…I was pissed, too...I'd never had a girl flirt with me before…it just kind of happened."

"And you said," Greg quickly checked the record of his previous interview with her. "That you didn't know much about her other than her name."

"Other than her name, all I know is what she was like in bed." Maryann said, tight lipped. "And that's shaky – I was so pissed I nearly blacked out."

"You said that you didn't think she and Willis were dating because you thought he was 'gay as a picnic basket.'" Greg stared at her.

Maryann sighed. "Yeah. I reversed that."

"Why?" Greg said, realising that her response might make or break this case – it might be the missing link to finding out who stalked her.

With a sigh, Maryann gnawed on the inside of her cheek. "I was scared. I didn't want to become a link."

"You're linked now," Greg said, standing up and walking slowly around the table. "So you might want to tell me everything you know."

Maryann shook her head. "I don't know anything."

"Did she say anything about being followed? Emails? Being scared?"

The girl's eyes darted around the interrogation room. "Well…" She said slowly. "She mentioned a 'him,' once or twice."

"What did she say?" Greg demanded, hoping Donovan was behind the glass, recording this.

Maryann shook her head, squinting, and trying to recall. "That he wouldn't be happy if he knew."

"Anything else?"

"When we went back to her place, she walked around the flat with an umbrella quickly—looking in closets and such. I thought it was for stability, she was kind of swaying on the spot. But, that's it."

"Do you have any idea as to who 'he' is?"

Maryann shook her head. "No. I thought it was the bloke walking her to and from work every day."

Greg stuck his hands in his pockets and sighed. "And you have no other ideas?"

"None at all."

"All right," Greg said, packing up the folder. Regretfully, he added, "We're done here for now. You're on record in investigation of Shaelee Birdie's murder and you will be charged for obstruction of justice."

Maryann's jaw dropped, tears beginning to arise through her eyes. Greg turned around on the spot, and left the interrogation room, still no further in discovering the stalker.

On Thursday, at noon exactly, Molly's mobile rang. She ignored first, finishing up the stitches on the current body on the table– a rather old woman who had lost her battle with pneumonia, poor thing. But then it rang again.

Molly felt her heart suddenly begin to race. The police didn't call her at work – at least not until they were ready to take her home. Her lack of friends limited the possibilities. Thus, squeezing hand sanitizer between her fingers, she rushed to the silver table. On the screen, to her horror only sat two words: BLOCKED CALLER.

She held her breath, her whole life flashing before her eyes. Afraid out of her mind.

Then, before she knew what she was doing, she picked up the mobile. Putting it to her ear, she croaked, "Hullo?"

"Molly," Came the voice on the other line. Deep, slightly cold, and extremely familiar.

"Sherlock?" Molly almost screamed. She cringed, and then lowered her voice. "What are you doing? Aren't you supposed to be – you know – playing dead?"

"Dull." Sherlock's voice came through clear as day and completely bored. "So you found out about your tail."

Molly's jaw dropped. She looked around the room, as though making certain she was alone, and turned to face the wall and lowered her voice, "You know about that? Are you in London?"

"Of course not – But I'm keeping an eye on everyone."

"All right," Molly said slowly, not sure if she wanted to press him or not, "Wait…so do you know who it is?"

"Obviously."

Molly's heart practically stopped. She waited for elaboration, but none came. "So who is it, then?"

Sherlock paused on the other line. "I can't tell you."

"Why not?"

"Because," Sherlock, to Molly's rage, still seemed bored. "You wouldn't know if he came up and talked to you in the street—he probably has, asked for directions or the time or commented on the weather. If you suddenly recognise his face or name it would be suspicious. I can't risk you giving Lestrade enough clues to let him figure me out—it'd be odd enough that even he might figure it out."

"Amazing how you assume he'd automatically assume any correct guess would come from you."

"It certainly wouldn't come from you."

"Now, wait a second—" Molly began to protest, offended.

"I didn't call to let you know who's been following you." Sherlock interrupted her. "I called to let you know that I've been meddling. I've known that you've been followed for a while now – didn't tell you (what good would it do you?), but I've made certain he's kept his distance."

In spite of herself, Molly pressed her lips together. "How?"

"I've been watching. And deterring him from following you. I've been intercepting his emails – making them appear as though they've bounced back. I've hacked into your bank records and security –"

"That was you?"

She could practically see Sherlock rolling his eyes. "The point was to make sure it looked like Molly Hooper isn't a real person. Obviously that doesn't matter to him much, though. He's chasing a fantasy."

"So he's still after me?"

"Obviously."

Molly paused. "So what do I do?"

"I'll make it look as though your email server malfunctioned. Same with your bank account. I'll stop messing with it. You won't get the emails back – won't help you anyway, they're virtually untraceable, even I couldn't manage it. But, in the future, you'll get them. Maybe there will be a clue somewhere."

"I see." Molly muttered, mind trying to wrap itself around this, wondering why Sherlock was using the word maybe. She hadn't even thought that was in his vocabulary.

Sherlock paused, and then spoke again. "Oh, and about your hair."

"My hair?" Molly asked, utterly flabbergasted. She took a lock of her waist-long tresses and held it up to her eyes.

"It's too long - makes it too easy to grab you." Sherlock said evenly. "Cut it."

"Sherlock…" Molly whispered, voice bordering on needy. "Am I going to get hurt?"

"Doubtless."

Molly choked, and felt tears burning up in her eyes. "What?"

"Oh, don't expect me to hold your hand and let you cry on my shoulder. I think Lestrade's much better suited for that." He paused. "I can't get back to England. You're left to the police. Good luck. I'm sorry."

With that, without any kind of formal good-bye, Sherlock hung up. Molly sunk to the bleached floor, her legs unable to keep herself standing anymore.

She was only able to recover herself, as the door to the morgue shot open, with Stamford shuffling in.

"Hi," Molly managed to mutter, her voice cracking.

Stamford blinked through his glasses, his mouth drawn tightly into a frown. "Molly? What are you doing here?"

Molly paused. "Working?"

"You…"Stamford said, waddling towards her. "You don't work here anymore."

"What?" Molly took a step back. "Why would you say that?"

Stamford came towards her, holding her wrists delicately, as though he were afraid she would try to hit him. Then, delicately, he said, "You were given the sack last week."

"What?" Molly shook her head. "No, that can't be right."

"It's in your file," The portly older man said. "Because you…assisted Sherlock in acquiring human…parts."

Molly froze. She suspected Sherlock did this, somehow. But why would he get her fired for doing nice things for him? For turning the blind eye when he wanted to take eyeballs or thumbs for some god-forsaken experiment? He had said he made her disappear, took her off the record. Well, she was certainly on the record. On the record for something no other hospital would overlook—she was left without another career option.

"Stamford," She said, wrenching away from his meaty hands. "Are you sure?"

He nodded.

"But…they never told me." Had they just expected her to know and to stop showing up? Besides, what she had done was, technically, illegal. If Bart's suddenly knew about it, why hadn't anyone arrested her? "Can they do that?"

Stamford shifted his massive weight. "They must've told you before last week. You must've pushed the memory away. Go home, Molly, have a nice cuppa, and get someone to see you about these suppressed memories."

Molly, dumbstruck, bolted away from the morgue. The only place she'd ever worked. She was trained in that morgue, her internship had been there, and it had been her first real job. And now, it was gone. Just like that.

Another horrible thing to add to the list, she thought. Why had Sherlock done it? What was he trying to do? Molly crossed her arms tightly across her torso, halfway wishing Sherlock would call back and explain himself, and halfway wishing he would just disappear again, like he had for the first year.

Ten minutes after being informed she'd been sacked, Greg showed up at the front doors of Bart's.

"What's going on?" He asked, eyes filled with concern. "I got your text. You're about four hours early."

Molly nodded, pushing through the doors, intent to leave the hospital behind her. Once safely in the passenger seat of Greg's car, she muttered, "I got the sack."

"What?" He blinked. "Why?"

Holding her breath, Molly decided it was harmless enough to tell him. "Remember how Sherlock used to…experiment in his flat? He got…things from my morgue."

"I know," Greg muttered, backing out of the car park. "I think everyone did."

Molly quickly turned pink. "Oh."

Greg reached over to her shoulder. "It's not that bad. Everyone figured it harmless. Really."

"Well, apparently not. It got me the sack," Molly muttered again, inwardly blaming Sherlock.

Greg let his eyes linger off the road longer than normal. Then he said, "Dinner or dessert?"

"Sorry?"

"Which do you want," He clarified. "Dinner or dessert?"

Molly stammered. "I—wait what?"

"I think you could use some kind of treat right about now. Since I'm not seeing Abby anymore, I've got some leftover money I didn't think I'd have. So…" He faded. "Two birds and all that."

"Well," she spoke after a moment. "Ever since my cards went wonky I don't think I've had a real meal."

"Dinner it is, then," said Greg with a smile.

They stopped in a little café about five minutes out from Bart's. Warm yellow light spilled from overhead as they slipped into small booth hidden away in a corner, with their coffees in one hand and plates in another.

Greg watched with reserved amusement as Molly all but attacked her burger and chips.

She looked up and, using a napkin to cover her mouth, blushed. "What?"

He shook his head. "Nothing."

Molly hunched her shoulders, and settled into the booth a bit lower.

Greg paused, remembering how his ex-wife used to always want to talk through her problems or feelings. He wasn't particularly verbal, but it wasn't even near the strangest thing about women, so it wasn't too difficult to lend a part in these conversations. "Do you want to talk about it?"

"No." Molly said, dipping a chip in a small pool of ketchup.

"Oh." Greg sat back a bit. He really hadn't been expecting that.

They chewed silently on their burgers for a few minutes. Soft rock music playing over the speakers echoed lightly underneath the garbled conversations of others sitting in tables and booths around them.

"So," Molly said after a moment, "How was your day?"

Greg couldn't help but chuckle slightly at the normality of her tone. It certainly wasn't a normal situation, but she was behaving as though it was. Though, he supposed, stranger things happened.

"Fine," He said. "Nothing new on your case, though. Collin's searching the laptop for more encrypted things that might help, and trying to trace back any data."

Molly folded her arms together, and idea creeping into her brain. But how to word it? She didn't want to reveal Sherlock, but at the same time, she wanted life to return to normal. "Maybe…" She said slowly. "Maybe you could talk to the server. See what's in his email. Maybe there will be something there."

"But I thought you said you haven't gotten any." Greg narrowed his eyes.

"I did," Molly said, innocently as possible. "Maybe he's – uh – saved things or something."

Greg considered, and then nodded. "We'll check."

They resumed eating for a moment, until an offhanded comment from a busser sparked an hour-long conversation. If asked about it, however, Greg wouldn't be able to tell you what they were talking about. His responses came quickly enough, but he found himself concentrating on the way Molly smiled and pulled on her clothes rather than the actual conversation.

Things kept up in this fashion for the remainder of the evening, as they left the café with Styrofoam cups of takeaway cappuccino, as they filed back into his silver car. Before they knew where they were, they stood at the front door to Molly's flat.

"Thank you, Greg," Molly said, her voice quivering above a whisper. "For everything. It was lovely. You're lovely." Her eyes widened. "Oh, God. No. I meant…" With this, her face fell into a sharp realisation. "What I said."

Greg, in spite of himself, found himself smiling.

Molly, bright red, shook her head. "Sorry. I didn't mean…I'm gonna go inside now. Good night."

She turned to leave, and Greg had to fight the impulse to latch onto her wrist and pull her in, as he watched her disappear behind the mahogany doors.

He didn't see it, but concealed in a nearby alleyway, a camera clicked, brief flashing drowned out by cars scurrying about and passers-by carrying on with their evening. The owner of the camera looked at the digital preview of the photograph, eyes narrowing. A thousand threats per second filling his brain. Not to mention a thousand rather creative ways to be rid of Gregory Lestrade – the obstacle standing between him and the love of his life.