A thousand apologies for the lateness of this update. However I won't make you wait for chapter 15, it's on the way. Thank you all for your patience. Your reviews and comments have kept me going. You are all wonderful. A giant thank to MizJoely for being the wolds best beta and an amazing friend. Any mistakes are mine.
Warnings: More Ford yuckieness. Animal cruelty, but nothing graphic. Mentions of drug use.
I own nothing. Enjoy ~Lil~
Here's what happened at the end of chapter 13:
After they'd both given their statements, Greg politely excused himself and Mycroft turned to Sherlock. "I'm, ah, so sorry, Sherlock."
Molly didn't think she was imagining some dewiness in the older man's eyes.
"I should have... protected you better," Mycroft said with a break in his voice.
Sherlock finally turned his head toward his brother. He looked at him for a long moment, though he didn't respond. Instead he turned to Molly and said, "I'm going to meet my Goddaughter." Then he left without another word.
As she rose to follow Mycroft stopped her. "Molly, wait."
She took a steadying breath and sat back down. If she was getting a Mycroft Holmes speech, after all the trauma of the day, she needed to be seated.
The older man situated himself squarely in front of her. "His next move... I can predict it."
"You think he'll go get high?"
"Oh, that's a possibility. That's always a possibility with Sherlock and you need to always remember that. But no. I was talking about something else. He'll push you away, Molly. This has all been too intense for him. Nearly losing you..." He paused. "Well, he'll want to nip it in the bud, so to speak. Attempt to protect you by putting distance between the two of you." Something changed as he walked closer, the look on his face. Molly watched as the ice melted. "You can't allow him to do this, Molly. You must hold on. Losing you now would be his undoing, even if it was by his own hand." He smiled, a small sad smile. "I've never been able to save him, you see. Not from Ford's insanity, not from Victor's drugs, not from Moriarty's games and especially not from himself. But you, Miss Hooper, you give him hope. And in the end, hope is what saves us all."
Then he turned and walked out of the room.
Molly joined Sherlock in the Watson's room and tried to act normal, she really did. Clearly Mary and John weren't buying it. Neither of them asked any questions, so she assumed Sherlock had filled them in. After a few minutes John told them both to go home and get some sleep. Kisses and hugs were exchanged, she and Sherlock made their way to a waiting government car.
The ride was silent and excruciating. Mycroft's words kept replaying in Molly's mind. Losing you would be his undoing... She had no idea how to keep Sherlock from kicking her out, breaking things off. The one thing she did know was that she loved him and would do whatever took to keep him healthy and safe. But as close as they'd become, he was still, in many ways, a complete mystery.
They'd never put any kind of label on their relationship, not really. Sherlock had been clear that he wanted more than sex, but he'd actually never said that he loved her. Calling her love didn't mean that was what he felt. Hell, the cashier at her favorite deli called her love.
He didn't speak a word on the trip back to Baker Street. She was still trying to figure everything out when she heard the driver announce that they'd arrived. They walked up to the flat, not touching or talking. Once inside Sherlock just stood there, frozen.
She waited for a couple of minutes then finally decided she had to do something. "Sherlock, we need to get clean- get all this dust off of us." She took his hand. "Shower. Come on." Tugging on his hand she guided him into the bathroom. Once in the room he just stood there, motionless. "Well, at least you followed me."
After removing her clothes she started on his. Halfway through the process his eyes finally focused on her. She'd never seen him look so tired, so completely lost. Though he was looking at her she had no idea if he was really with her. "Hey, I'm here. Touch me," she said hoping it would elicit some kind of response. But it didn't, he just stared at her with those impossible eyes, studying her like she was something brand new. She sighed and turned on the shower. "Get in, Sherlock. Please." He stepped into the tub and Molly followed, nudging him under the spray. She cleaned him first, washing his hair thoroughly then she gently washed his body, using her hands rather than a flannel. His ribs were bruised, but not broken. She'd taken the brunt of his fall and though she knew she'd be sore for days, she counted herself very lucky - no blessed - to have walked away from today with only a few scrapes and bruises.
When finished, she traded places with him and quickly took care of herself. Sherlock was slightly more responsive after the shower, actually participating in drying himself but still not speaking. He sat on the closed toilet while Molly plaited her hair and took care of her contacts. She turned to him when she was done holding out her hand. "Bed?" He gave her an odd look, but then nodded, taking her hand and following her to his room.
Once in the room he lay down immediately, not bothering with clothes, just covering himself with a sheet. Molly grabbed a pair of pants and a tee-shirt, dressing quickly, then crawled in next to him. "Sherlock, please say something. You're scaring me," she said hovering over him slightly, cupping his cheek with her hand. "Don't do this to me, don't shut me out. I couldn't bear to lose you now," she pleaded.
Sherlock turned to her, finally looking like himself for a moment and said, "Go to sleep, Molly. You've been through hell. We'll talk in the morning."
Molly sighed, feeling slightly better having gotten a response from him, even if it wasn't the response she had wanted. Then she curled up next to him, careful not to put too much pressure on his ribs and fell asleep.
He may have appeared calm on the outside, but Sherlock's mind was racing. He was completely panicking. Molly had nearly died. All he could see when he closed his eyes was Ford's knife at her throat. Her beautiful, perfect throat. And of course he'd had a bomb. How did I miss that? he asked himself over and over. Suddenly a memory took him over without warning.
"Locky! Come on, I have a toy!" Ford said as he yanked Sherlock up off the ground. He'd been watching an ant hill at the foot of his favorite tree.
"I'm busy, Ford," a six year old Sherlock told his big brother.
"This'll be fun! Look." Ford held out his hand and showed Sherlock a Catherine Wheel.
"Where'd you get that?"
"Doesn't matter." The older boy raced off and Sherlock followed.
They ran to a clearing a hundred yards or so from his tree. Sherlock saw a small pile of sticks a few feet away.
"Wait here while I set this up," Ford instructed.
He had a bad feeling, but he usually did when his brother involved him in something. Ford lit it and ran back to him. There was a small explosion, then Ford laughed and cheered.
"Did you see that, Locky? Wasn't it great?"
The boys approached the small smoldering pile of debris. What Sherlock saw nearly stopped his heart. "Why would you do that Ford?" he asked.
"Why not? They were just stupid birds!"
"Baby birds!" Sherlock yelled. "They couldn't get away. And you killed them!"
"You're such a pussy! You're just lucky it wasn't you!" He grabbed Sherlock's shoulders tightly. "Don't tell mum or dad or it will be! Understand?"
Sherlock rubbed his hand over his face then looked down at a sleeping Molly next to him. She looked so peaceful, so innocent. How could he visit all his demons on her? He shouldn't have touched her, not once. Giving her up would tear him apart, but he'd do it... for her he'd do anything. He brushed his fingers across her forehead. Oh God, I'm going to break her heart, he thought. Taking a deep breath he entered his mind palace, hoping to find some answers.
He found himself in the lounge of flat he'd rented when he was at university. Why? he wondered. Oh, not again.
"Ya know, I'm starting to think that you miss me Will," a familiar voice called out from the kitchen.
Sherlock looked up to see Victor leaned up against the doorway, a sandwich in his hand. "Really? Why is it always you?"
"As I explained before, it's your mind. I have no idea why you choose me as a conduit." He took a bite and strolled into the room.
Sherlock sat down on the busted sofa, running his hands through his hair. Vic sat across from him and continued to eat.
"Why are you always eating and drinking?" Sherlock asked.
"Well, I actually have a theory about that. I think I represent sin in your fucked up mind. Lust and Gluttony. Remember last time I had a sweet piece of ass with me." He chuckled then took another bite. When he finally swallowed he said, "Would you rather I be doing coke off of your toilet seat?"
Sherlock grimaced.
"I didn't think so." He tossed the remnants of the sandwich on the coffee table and dusted off his hands. "Let's talk, Will."
He sighed. "Fine, but what's the point? You know everything I know. It doesn't change the facts."
"Perspective, my morose friend. That's why you conjured me." He leaned forward. "You can't let her go."
"I have to."
"No. Actually you have a choice. You could send her away, sure. Causing an untold amount of heartache for the both of you. Or you could keep her. Protect her, like you did tonight."
Sherlock jumped up from the sofa and started pacing. "She nearly died!" he growled.
"Not really," Vic replied casually.
He looked at his dead friend like he'd lost his mind. "Not really? Ford held a knife to her neck. He had a bomb the entire time! He would have killed her in an instant!"
"Are you saying that you would have let that happen?" Vic asked.
"Of course not! I- I... no!"
Vic stood up and crossed the room to stand in front of Sherlock. "Well then, there you go. She didn't nearly die."
"But she was in danger!" Sherlock argued.
Victor rolled his eyes. "Okay fine. She was in danger. Jesus, she's in danger riding the Tube these days. If you think for a moment this is to do with your psychopathic brother, you're wrong." He grabbed Sherlock's face in his hands. "You're scared. Guess what? Life's fucking scary, Will. But you get to live it, unlike some of us." He patted Sherlock's cheek. "You'll be okay. But you need to tell her, you know."
He dropped his hands and walked to the front door.
"I don't want to hurt her."
Vic turned just before he left. "Then don't."
Sherlock opened his eyes to see that Molly had rolled over and was facing the other way. He got up and, as quietly as possible, he got dressed. He had to talk to someone. A living person...
Twenty minutes later Mycroft Holmes was answering his door, not at all surprised to see his little brother at 4.43 in the morning. He hadn't slept anyway.
"Ah Sherlock. Do come in," he said as he stepped aside.
"How?" Sherlock asked in lieu of a greeting.
"How?" Mycroft sighed. "Sherlock, I'm exhausted. Please elaborate." He turned and walked down the hall to his kitchen. His staff was gone so he immediately started making them both a cup of tea.
"How did Ford get the weapons and bomb into Barts?"
"Sit before you fall over." He ignored the question until he was finished preparing the tea and had given Sherlock his beverage. Once seated, he took a sip then said, "You know exactly how he did it, Sherlock."
He shook his head. "I can't think right now, Myke. Memories. Vic. Molly. My mind won't stop. Just tell me so I don't have to work it out."
"No, figure it out. Concentrate. It will help you centre. You need something on which to focus."
Sherlock gave him a petulant glare that reminded him all too much of a much younger version of the man. It made his chest ache. No one could cause Mycroft Holmes to lose control of his emotions like his baby brother. It didn't happen often, but after the experiences of the day, he allowed it. Finally Sherlock drew a deep breath and brought his hands up to his mouth in his thinking pose. Mycroft leaned back and relaxed just bit. He knew that if Sherlock could calm him down and fix his mind on a single task it would help to bring him some peace and they could move on to the real matter at hand.
"He knew we'd use Barts. He brought the bomb in bit by bit."
"Good. And the gun? The knife?"
"Service entrances aren't guarded. He disguised himself. Then brought them in and hid them. Like I said, he knew us too well." When he opened his eyes they were red, blood-shot.
"We made a mistake. We should have chosen another hospital." Mycroft leaned on his elbows. "She's safe now."
"And next time?" Sherlock asked.
Mycroft shook his head. "There are few guarantees in this life, brother mine. You cannot assure her safety at all times. But she loves you, for that you can be sure."
"When did you start caring?"
Mycroft smiled as he held back tears, but just barely. "The day you were born," he said, once again allowing himself this one moment.
Sherlock cleared his throat, then took a drink of his tea. "Fine," he said. "You win. But we do this my way and as much as it pains me, I'll need your help."
"Of course," Mycroft said with a deep sigh.
Thanks again for being so patient with me. Chapter 15 is on the way. Please give me a shout out and tell me what you think (it really does help keep me motivated!) ~Lil~