Chapter 20

"All good is hard. All evil is easy. Dying, losing, cheating, and mediocrity are easy. Stay away from easy."

Scott Alexander

Extraction is what they called it in this business. It was supposed to be a rescuing, but it usually ended up more like a kidnapping. Whatever shred of adrenaline he had left after two weeks without food or sleep propelled him along the corridors. Mycroft helped him hobble on bruised soles. He was bundled into a jeep and they sped along wet roads through the grey outskirts of Belgrade to a private airfield, where the Cessna would take them to the relative safety of Austria.

Later, whilst having his wounds sutured upon a table in the impenetrable sanctum of the safe house, he called for a 'decent' cup of coffee, a cigarette, an elastic band and a laptop. Mycroft obliged with the usual deadpan antipathy that hid his true concern. Sherlock accepted the computer and used the elastic band to tie his hair away from his face. He then began to type his two hundred page report.

He completed it in eleven hours.

Systematic.

Dismantle.

Cold.

Calculating.

Sherlock lined up the words and they danced for him, forming a web with other closely related words and eventually condensing into the map of what he believed he was.

He could see it all so clearly now. His only mistake had been to approach a problem that depended upon emotion in a completely unemotional way. His hunt for Baron Maupertuis had begun as a technical exercise in hide and go seek, but he did not foresee that the son, the very man that he was investigating, would turn out to be the one who's office he'd broken into on that chilly autumn night, or that he would take revenge, not only for his father's death, but for the burglary and the subsequent daring escape.

Very clever. The military was the perfect place to hide and the perfect cover for his drug and human trafficking operations. Sherlock had gone looking for service records at that base and instead found the man himself, although he didn't know it at the time. Maupertuis Junior had taken over the family enterprise long ago and was relying on the good name of his father to open doors in the criminal community. Open doors to Moriarty's syndicate…

Yes, that was where he'd gone wrong, not recognising that this man was an emotional creature and his own logical approach made no sense when it came to a methodology based upon something so fleeting, so ephemeral, as pain and revenge.

The torture had very nearly broken him and he wouldn't let anyone see that easily, so when he was confronted with Maup Junior at the farm, he was shaken because he felt exposed, felt like his insides were on show. It was all very well sharing with someone like Molly, but he really couldn't afford to seem weak when there was such complex politics surrounding this case. McCullough had him by the balls, so to speak, but at least it meant Mycroft would be off his back for the time being.

McCullough had let them go free on the proviso that he would be the first to profit from any progress in the investigation. Sherlock really didn't appreciate being blackmailed into being someone's lap dog, but the alternative was far worse. His brother was not one who made threats lightly or didn't follow them up. As long as he agreed to work with McCullough, he was a free man. It just meant that he couldn't take any glory for catching the terrorist.

Molly.

The heartbeat was there as always, the constant, unquenchable demand...

She was safe, but there was still work to be done.

His eyes opened to a scene of John lying on the sofa in the dawn light, knees tucked up to his chest. He'd thrown away the blood stained shirt and trousers when they got back and was now dressed in clothes he'd left at the flat a while ago. John always seemed to take up surprisingly little space. Sherlock unclasped cold fingers, unsure of how long he'd been meditating. As if in response to Sherlock's own return to consciousness, John stirred and pressed the heels of his hands into his tired eyes. "What time is it?"

"About seven. You've been out for two hours."

"About? You're never that unsure of anything." John rotated his body to a sitting position, still massaging the sleep from his face.

"Exactly. It's exactly seven." Sherlock headed for the kitchen. "Tea?"

John blinked rapidly, peeling himself from the sofa. "I'd better get back to Mary; she'll be scared - "

"Oh, I doubt that very much."

" - with all these terror threats and everything." But then he stopped. "What's wrong?"

"Why would anything be wrong? We caught the guy. Case closed." Sherlock filled the kettle.

John allowed a few empty seconds to pass between them while he let the last vestiges of an unsatisfying sleep slip away. He followed Sherlock to the kitchen, cold and stiff, as if he'd slept out of doors.

"So what was all that about Maupertuis' son and a dirty bomb?" John pulled up one of the kitchen chairs and sat down so that he could watch the ritual.

"I was wrong. Mycroft was right; Maupertuis didn't have a son. It was Robert Wade all along, just like they said. They didn't find a bomb, just a trail of contamination from the Romanian girl and a set of human teeth in the pigpen. Seems whatever it was isn't on British soil, so it's not my problem."

Out came the box of Taylor's Yorkshire Gold.

"What did that cop say to you?" John squinted at him.

"Nothing of significance. Gave me a slap on the wrist for the attempted arson."

The kettle clicked off.

"You haven't been to sleep, have you? You've just been sitting there in your mi - "

"How many times do you want me to say it? I. Was. Wrong."

Milk.

"Nah. I'm not buying it. I know you better than that." John had a mild smile on his face.

"Sugar?"

"You know I don't take sugar."

"Alright." The sugar bowl capsized and spilt on the counter. "If you really want to know. I'm tired. I'm tired of my brother pulling my strings and getting me to do his dirty work for him. I'm tired of pretending I didn't think I'd left this case behind a year ago. I tired of being indestructible. Rant over. Happy now?" Sherlock put John's cup of tea down in front of him.

"Sherlock." John seemed to psyche himself up. "There's something I've been meaning to ask you." he closed his eyes when he realised he was asking the wrong question. "I mean, there's something I need to know."

"Oh, here we go," Sherlock muttered.

"About Molly. What was that all about – earlier – yesterday?"

"I told you. She got her wires crossed. Happens."

"No. I don't think so. You've been acting strangely ever since you realised she was involved."

"I know what you're going to say and you are wrong. You haven't touched your tea."

"W- What do you think I'm going to say?"

"You think that my uncomfortable behaviour concerning Molly Hooper is the result of some kind of limerent feeling on my part, but that is only what one would expect from the evidence. Only what a predictable, sentimental idiot would expect. Please don't insult me by suggesting that I'd succumb to this disease, the main symptoms of which seem to be stripping the victim of all cognitive ability and going shopping for drapes. The truth is you just want it to be because of some cute, fluffy feeling, because that's what you like now. Apparently."

"But she – she saved you."

"And now she's safe too. End of story, fini, terminado, fertig."

"That squishy feeling you're describing is called love."

"Love, John? Love is for children. Naïve imbeciles." He finished with a cruel sneer.

"Is that how you really feel?

"Do you kiss her in your dreams?" said the Woman, unexpectedly crashing into his thoughts.

Go away. Sherlock pressed his palms to his temples, trying to banish the image of those black spike heels. Ju jeni të sigurt tani…

"Sherlock," John was worried now, "are you Okay?"

"Zvetënuar - "

"What?"

"Fine. I'm fine," Sherlock responded quickly, angrily wrangling his mind under control. "You really want to know what bothers me about Molly? Think you can handle it?"

"Go on then."

"You."

"Me?" John almost laughed.

"Yes you, John. I had a plan. I knew that as soon as I showed up alive, any of Moriarty's associates still active would be keeping an eye open for anyone that either helped me escape, or was important to me. So to ensure her safety I had to convince them that she meant absolutely nothing to me, that I was just using her, exposing her complicity and then discarding her. That was why I told Anderson the whole story; because I knew he wouldn't be able to resist going public with it, but then you – you - "

"But what?"

"You dropped her in it, John, you bloody sold her down the river."

"What?"

"You and your… stupid blog," he said in a mocking tone, "I quote; 'I refused to go back to Baker Street so he replaced me with Molly Hooper and started solving cases while he worked on the terrorist thing.' Ergo; Molly Hooper is the replacement John."

"But that's exactly the same as what you did."

"No, it's not, because going out and solving crimes actually means something to me, you idiot. It's all I have and I don't share it with just anyone."

John sank back into his chair. "Oh."

"I was trying to spare you the knowledge that you'd probably signed her death warrant, when all I was trying to do was keep her alive. Robert Wade read your blog and killed Barnett to get close to her. I think the Romanian girl, whoever she was, knew about his plan and when she realised she was dying she went straight to Bart's. It wasn't a coincidence; she was trying to warn someone. If the driver hadn't panicked and dumped the body, we would never have found Molly and her death would be on your hands."

"I thought - "

"I know what you thought."

John stared at the tea, trying to process what had just passed between them. Then he scraped back the chair, grabbed his coat and walked out of the flat without saying a word.

The poppies were thoroughly dead now and there was a mess of petals and pollen on the coffee table. The invitation. But that wasn't true was it, Sherlock? You still would have found her. You would have moved heaven and earth to find her...

He couldn't have anyone, even John, knowing about the secret desire that he still harboured. The things he had to do to protect those he loved. He loved her and everything that had happened only cemented that. Yes, of course he loved her. He was only human. But in the dark corners of his soul he knew that he would also be the death of her.

So, John was gone then. Good. Sherlock considered his own cup of tea for a second, but then he galvanised himself into action.

The next phase of the plan.

He dialled Tom's number.

Molly answered it.

"Molly, I need to know everything those men said to you, everything they did, everything you saw - "

"Oh, hello, Sherlock," she said sarcastically, "I'm fine, thank you. Not raped at all, thanks for asking."

"Mol - "

"No, Sherlock," she said, "no more." And then she hung up.

Sherlock was left looking at the screen of his phone like it had bitten him. That was strange...

Molly pressed the red button and handed the phone back to Mycroft.

"Well done," he said, a little patronisingly, "I know my brother can be very persuasive, but this is for his own good."

Molly looked up at him from her perch on the hospital bed. She'd been hosed down by the HPA, put in this awful paper gown and poked and prodded until she was fit to scream, but she still felt dirty somehow. "And what about my good. You promised me protection."

"I gave you him, didn't I?"

They both looked out to the corridor where Tom was pacing, shut out of the conversation by glass.

"I could have lost my job over this, not to mention my life."

"But you didn't. So you can go back to doing... whatever it is you do that is so crucially important to society." He said the word 'society' like he was scraping shit off his shoe. "I must warn you, Miss Hooper, that people who insist on hanging around with Sherlock don't stay safe for long. There's only so much I can do. Who is going to protect you from him?"

"We'll cross that barrier when we get to it," she mumbled.

"What was that?" He draped his coat over his arm, preparing to leave.

"Nothing. You wouldn't understand."

"Well, I'll bid you goodbye, Miss Hooper. I had your diagnostics bumped up the queue and apparently you've been given the all clear. Not contaminated."

Molly glared at him in amazement. "You could've - "

"Naturally, I wouldn't even be here if there was a chance that you were. Good day."

"It's Doctor Hooper..." she said through gritted teeth as he waltzed out into the corridor, swinging the perennial umbrella.

"Hey." Tom, poked his head around the glass door.

"What?" she said, irritably.

"What did he say?" He came fully into the room, looking sheepish.

Molly looked away from him, pulling her borrowed cardigan more firmly around her shoulders. For some reason his face just made her angry. "Our jobs are safe, if that's what you're worried about."

Tom sat in the visitors chair. "There's no need to be s - "

"MI5." She cut him off, "M. I. Flaming five."

Tom looked down. "It's not what you think, I - "

"You lied to me from the moment we met!" her eyes were aflame now and she grasped the bed covers with her fists as if she could use them as some kind of weapon to stop her heart being broken... again.

"It's not as glamorous as it sounds. All I do is collect intelligence. It's the same job essentially, only the employer is different."

"And that would make perfect sense in your mind, wouldn't it? Only I'm not going to ignore the fact that the man I'm going to marry is living a complete lie." Then something occurred to her. "Sherlock knew, didn't he? That's why he called you when I went missing."

"Yes."

"How long?"

"Since the very moment we met."

It made perfect sense now. Of course Sherlock knew that Tom was in MI5. He could spot them a mile away. Worked with them all the time. One quick glance up and down and all the evidence would betray them. This was Mycroft's idea of protection. Plant someone in her life that she wouldn't suspect. But where was the protection for her heart? That was what mattered the most. What good was it being alive if your heart was in tatters?

Why hadn't she seen? All those trips away, supposedly being an investigative reporter. Oh, he was investigating something...

"I can't deal with this right now." Molly rubbed her face. "Go and get me some breakfast. And some knickers. CID took mine."

Tom obliged obediently and she headed for the bathroom. She stripped off the cardigan and the paper gown and started the shower. As the scalding hot water beat down on her head, she finally allowed herself to cry.

Angry, disappointed tears mingled in with the generic soap as she tried and tried to scrub the memory of that place out of her hair, out of her hands and body, until she was raw. Finally she slid down the tiles and wailed as the last imagined remnants of so many peoples blood sluiced down the plughole.