A/N: I'm still thanking Prisci. She edited this chapter at 5 in the morning. God bless you.
Disclaimer: I made an 11:11 wish to own Sherlock. Didn't work out.
Molly stared at the corpse on her table. Definitely homicide. Third this month. Blonde female, fifteen to twenty-five, death by asphyxiation. After running her eyes over the pale body, she shut them tight, turning away from the young corpse. Severe trauma to the breasts and vaginal region. Same as the other two.
Sometimes she hated her job.
She picked up the phone, ready to call in her findings. It rang three times.
"Sergeant Donovan."
"Sally? It's Molly Hooper, down at the morgue."
A sigh floated over the line. "So it was another one of his, wasn't it?"
Molly nodded before remembering Sally couldn't see her. "Um, yeah. Definitely his M.O. Hair colour, weight, height. Cause of death. Sexual trauma. It's all him."
She listened as Sally sighed again. In all honesty, she didn't mind the detective. She knew John was bitter towards her. He blamed her, in many ways, for Sherlock's death. But, as Sherlock had explained to her, and she agreed, Sally had just been a pawn in Moriarty's game. What she did, it wasn't her fault. She was made to believe it. But that didn't change John's bitterness towards Sergeant Donovan. Or Donovan's hatred for herself.
"You'll find him. You'll find the bastard behind all of this. I know you will."
She could almost hear Sally shaking her head. "But before he kills another girl, Molly? This is the third in the past month and that's just who we've found, who got reported missing."
"Sally-"
Sally let out a sound of frustration, a mixture somewhere between a sigh and a laugh. "I'm sorry, Molly. I've just been so stressed lately, what with these murders and the Rich Brook case with missing persons-"
It took Molly far too long to realise she could no longer hear Sally. She stared at her phone for a long minute, having dropped it to the floor. What was there to be made of Richard Brook? Sherlock had said Jim had killed himself. True, she hadn't seen the body, but she had been under strict orders from Sherlock: fill out his paperwork, put something in a sealed casket so as to resemble his weight, and get him the hell out of St. Bart's. No one had minded her leaving, no one had really even noticed. The next day, a few had offered their condolences; her absence went unquestioned and she had just assumed one of her coworkers had dealt with the body of James Moriarty. But Richard Brook isn't so uncommon of a name. Maybe Sally's talking about another case.
"I-I'm sorry." She pulled the phone back to her ear. "I got distracted. What - what did you say about Rich Brook?"
"Well, he's still missing."
Molly shut her eyes, suddenly afraid. No. He was dead. He was dead and they found him on the roof of the hospital after Sherlock jumped.
"I'm sorry, missing?"
"Mmm-hmm." She listened as Sally took a sip of something over the line. "According to that reporter, he was last seen running from her apartment when, ummm, well when Sherlock started, fuck, um, Ms. Riley said he looked like he was going to attack him."
"Sally, you can't still believe in that-"
"What do you want me to believe, Molly? Everything says he was a fraud and nearly ruined this actor's life and now he's missing."
Molly shook her head furiously, glad Sally couldn't see her. This was bad. This was so horribly bad.
"Look, Molly. I hate talking about this, I really do. I'll call you later, alright?"
Molly bit her lip. "Just one thing, one question. About - about Sherlock."
Sally sighed.
"When you went up to the roof, was there anything there?"
"What do you mean?"
Was James Moriarty's body there? Was there blood there?
"Just - I don't know. Something that suggests that maybe he didn't jump."
"People saw him, Molly." Sally's voice was thick. "I'm sorry."
Molly shook her head. "No, no. Maybe, maybe it wasn't by choice. Just - was there anything there?"
"Just Sherlock's phone, Molly. That was all. Listen, I really have to go now, but we'll do drinks soon, alright? When we finish this case. We'll celebrate catching the bastard."
The next few minutes were a blur. One minute, she was ending her call with Sally. The next, she was sitting on the floor of the lab, next to the examining table. Jim couldn't be alive. It wasn't possible. He put a bloody gun in his mouth, for Christ's sake. Sherlock said he had pulled the trigger, said that he had killed himself. Sherlock swore that to her. He swore to her that Jim Moriarty was dead. He swore to her.
He swore to her.
And then she was on her feet, throwing her belongings into her bag and grabbing her coat. She had to get home. He had lied to her. Sherlock had lied. After everything - everything - she had done for him, he had lied to her. It was to make me feel safe. He knew I wouldn't feel safe unless he was dead.
Sherlock lied to me.
A hand closed around her wrist. "Doctor Hooper?"
She tried to keep walking.
"Molly!" She turned to face a younger blonde man. Doctor Max Ryan, toxicology. He smiled, releasing her wrist, which she clutched to her chest.
"What, um, what do you want?"
"I got back those reports you needed done. For your murder case." He handed her a stack of papers, that all too charming smile gracing his face under blue, far too dilated eyes. Molly shook her head quickly; she had been spending too much time with Sherlock.
"Right, well..." She trailed off, unsure of what to do. She really should check Max's reports, get them filed while still at the hospital. But she just needed to get home. "Could you just put them on my desk? I can look at them tomorrow."
"It's a murder case, Molly. Don't you think you should look at it?"
"Yeah, I know, but..." she trailed off, blinking several times and looking around. Why were hospitals so white? Max stared at her for a moment and began opening and closing his mouth rapidly, but she just looked at him. She could feel a strong buzzing building up in her ears, completely overwhelming her other senses. She had to get home. She turned, looking over her shoulder; she was so close to the door, if Max's mouth would just stop failing to talk to her. Something - flesh - wrapped around her wrist. She let out a small shriek of surprise and terror.
"Molly!"
She looked down to see a smooth hand wrapped around her wrist. Her eyes followed the hand to a wrist, an arm, a shoulder, a neck, Max. She shook her head, mouth dry.
"I'm so, so sorry." She could feel the tears welling up in her eyes as he released her.
"Hey, hey! It's alright." Max stared at her with worried eyes. "You know what? Just go home. Take tomorrow off, I'll cover for you. I can call the Yard, explain to them the results. You're working with DI Lestrade, right?"
Molly shook her head, blinking her eyes. "No, um, with his partner, Sally Donovan. Lestrade's still on desk duty."
"For letting Holmes on?" Molly nodded. Max rolled his eyes. "Didn't Donovan have to do with that, too?"
Molly shrugged. "I don't know." She gestured to the papers in his hands. "Oh, thank you, by the way."
Max smiled, resting an open hand on Molly's open arm. "Don't worry about it. Do, um, do you want me to call you a cab?"
Molly shook her head. "I'm fine, thanks. Um, thank you. See you...later."
She turned and walked off before he could say another thing. All she knew was that she had to get home. And drunk. Very drunk.
* * *
She was barely in the door when Sherlock appeared in the hallway.
"You got off early."
Molly looked at her watch. "I get home around now every night."
"But you have groceries tonight." Of course, the obvious.
"If you can call them that."
Sherlock stared at her, a confused, curious, and, if she didn't know better, concerned stare. She had only ever actually seen this expression on him once before.
"You can see me."
"I don't count."
Without taking his eyes off of her, he took the bag in her hands. He stared for a moment longer before extending his empty hand and gesturing Molly further into the apartment.
"Something's wrong."
"Oh?" Molly even surprised herself with the snarky tone of her voice.
Sherlock set the bag on the table, sitting himself down on the couch. She hated the way he was looking at her. She felt so small, so naked. They had an unspoken agreement, one that had been in place since he moved into her flat: he could not deduce anything about her (and let her know he had) without her consent. She should have known this agreement wasn't one to last.
"You never leave work early, unless you've been ill. Despite your apparent physical health, however, you've left early. You also went out and bought vodka, despite the fact that both of us seldom drink. Finally, you attitude. You're angry, but your anger is not directed at me. What happened at work? And don't say nothing, because it would be an obvious lie and - where are you going?"
Molly peered around the corner from the kitchen. "Glasses."
"I don't want to drink."
Molly turned around and walked back to the couch, sitting beside Sherlock, much closer than she normally did, her eyes cast down. When she finally looked up to make eye contact, Sherlock found himself caught off-guard by the utter fear in them. Why? He drew back slightly, straightening his back.
"Are you frightened of me?"
Molly shook her head, looking back down. No, she could never be scared of him.
"Sherlock...you wouldn't...you would never lie to me, would you? Especially not about why you're here. Right?"
She watched as Sherlock's head bent to one side.
"I've told you everything. I am forever indebted to you and would never lie about the circumstance that brought me here."
Molly nodded. She knew that already. Of course she knew that. She swallowed, feeling as though she could break down in tears any moment.
"Right, um, then you're gonna want a drink."
She could feel Sherlock's eyes on her as she poured the drinks. She wondered if he had any idea what was going on. She was fully aware of her trembling hands and was sure Sherlock had not missed them. But he was silent. Taking a deep breath, she walked back towards him, handing him a glass before sitting beside him and bringing her knees to her chest.
"It's serious."
"Sorry?"
"Whatever's bothering you."
Molly sighed. "It's fine, Sherlock. Tell me what you know."
Sherlock turned to face her. Maybe she had been right before, maybe he was concerned.
"I know something's wrong, and I know it's something that concerns me, otherwise you wouldn't have questioned your ability to trust me-"
"I didn't mean it."
"Regardless, whatever it is that has you in this state is bad, but I'd rather not assume the worse. So, tell me what's wrong."
"Um, well, I was talking today. With Sergeant Donovan. We've been on this case- serial murder. And, um, well, she mentioned a missing persons case she's working on..."
And so she began to talk, relaying her entire conversation with Sally, supplementing it with details from the days following his fall. She stumbled through her words, nervous for what she was sure was inevitable fury. But Sherlock just sat there, perfectly silent, watching her. Blue-green eyes on brown; not forceful, but curious - allowing for contact when she wanted it while not forcing it when she didn't.
"She said they only found your mobile. No blood, no gun... Nothing. And there should have been blood. A lot of blood. You saw it. But there wasn't any."
For the first time, talking to Sherlock Holmes felt natural, it felt safe. The stumbling over her words lessened and, for the first time since she had gotten off the phone with Sally, she no longer felt as though the world was ending - at least not in this very moment. Her eyes flickered around the room as she rattled off her story: to Sherlock's eyes, to his hand clutching the still full glass, to her own untouched glass, and back to his eyes.
"I moved just before last Christmas, so he can't possibly know where I live anymore. He can't. And I know, logically, he can't be alive, but..." She trailed off, eyes focussing on Sherlock's hands.
They sat there in silence a few minutes - or perhaps hours or even days - neither one moving. And then both acted at once.
"I'm scared, Sherlock," she said in almost a whisper as he took a long, slow drink from his glass.
"I assure you, Molly, my drinking should cause you no fear," he smiled teasingly. She hadn't known he was capable of such an expression.
Molly let out a snort of laughter, barely masking a sob, at the ridiculousness of his comment. "Now's not exactly the time to develop of sense of humour."
"Don't be ridiculous, Molly. I've always had a sense of humour. Just because you've never before witnessed it does not mean it doesn't exist."
"I'm being serious, Sherlock."
And then, more surprising than anything else he had done all night, maybe more surprising than anything he had done since he'd moved into her flat or, quite possibly, in all the years she had known him, Sherlock leaned towards her, one of his hands grasping her own and the other holding her shoulder, guiding her to face him.
"Whether or not Jim Moriarty is alive and whether or not he had an accomplice, I will not let anyone hurt you."
"But you're scared, too. And don't tell me you're not; I know you are."
Sherlock sat up straight, taken aback by Molly's assertion. His hand never left hers. Molly continued, taking advantage of her boldness before she drew back in on herself. She held up their joined hands. "You don't do this, Sherlock. Touching. Not ever - not if you can avoid it. You're scared, for some reason," she brought her other hand to his, sandwiching his large hand between her smaller ones. "You need this. Not me... Not me specifically. Just...contact. You feel the need to make contact. Like it'll help."
She felt sillier with each word she said. Sherlock ran his thumb across her own.
"It helps you, doesn't it?" There was something in his voice, something she couldn't place. "You spend your days acting like I'm dead. I would think that physical contact helps reaffirm that I'm not. Does it not make you feel safer, knowing that I will not let anyone harm you?"
Molly looked down, suddenly afraid of making eye contact.
"Doesn't it help you, to know that when he makes you seem worse than he already has and when he completely destroys your world, you'll have a solid person to rely on? Someone who will always believe in you?"
Sherlock squeezed her hand. "I'm trying to help you, Molly. I've brought you into this and I'm trying to keep you safe."
Oh. She understood. For the first time, she was truly sure she understood him, better than he understood himself.
He was pleading with her. He needed this, to keep being a hero. He would never admit it, even to himself, that she knew, but he need to keep protecting someone, something, even if he was dead to the world.
He still needed her.
"Right, um, I know you will. Keep me safe. I trust you. I just - you saw him die."
Sherlock removed his hand from hers. "John saw me die. That's inconsequential."
"But you had me! You weren't alone. We both know you couldn't have done it alone. If he is alive, he's not alone... and we have no idea who he's working with and it could really be anyone and" she broke off, finally letting out a sob. Her body began shaking. So this was how it felt to be truly terrified.
"Molly." Sherlock's voice was steady and, to Molly's surprise, almost frustrated. "Molly, you're getting hysterical. Calm down, I will not let you get hurt for my sake."
She pushed herself off the couch, nodding slightly. "I should get to bed. I've got to work tomorrow."
Sherlock said nothing as Molly grabbed the two mostly-full glasses and returned them to the kitchenette. She scratched Toby's head as she made her way to her room.
"Molly," she turned, her hand on the doorknob. "Keep talking with Sally Donovan. Find out what you can about the investigation and keep me updated. The more we know about where he's not, the better we can avoid him."
She wasn't sure why, but she smiled. "Goodnight, Sherlock."
Sherlock's mouth twitched in a half-smile as her turned on the telly. Molly's hands were still trembling as she shut her door behind her and changed out of her work clothes. Her fingers could barely send a coherent text to Dr Ryan, telling him not to worry about her case - she'd be in tomorrow to go over the tests herself. Her entire body shook as she wrapped her comforter around herself. She had been scared the moment Sally had mentioned Richard Brook, but her conversation with Sherlock both terrified and assured her. She knew that Sherlock was telling the truth - he would keep her safe - but he had undoubtedly reaffirmed that there was a threat, a reason to fear the disappearance of James Moriarty. She clutched her pillow to her chest. Now, more than ever, she just wanted to return to her couch and curl up beside Sherlock Holmes. Maybe, in a perfect world, he would hold her close, lovingly whispering reassurances into her ear. She squeezed her eyes shut, willing herself not to cry. Sherlock said everything would be okay.
It would all be okay.