Note:I know this took an extremely long time. So sorry!
Beta: Many thanks to the lovely penelope1730 for agreeing to take over as beta! She's done a fantastic job at helping me with not only this chapter, but also with the story overall. She's wonderful, simply wonderful, and you should all go follow her on the Tumblr!
"Ms. Hooper, I know this is difficult but I need you to try and answer a few questions for me. Can you do that?"
"Yes."
"Good, I'll try to make this as quick as I can so that you can get some rest. Can you tell me what happened?"
"I..I was doing my shift at Barts…erm, that's Saint Bartholomew… I was working in the morgue when he came in…"
"It's alright. Take your time."
"He came…he cane into the room and locked the door. He told me that he had missed me. I tried to leave, but he grabbed me and …and covered my mouth with something. That's the last thing… I remember before I woke up."
"You told the officer that your attacker was James Moriarty. Are you sure it was him?"
"Yes."
"You are, in fact, aware that James Moriarty committed suicide on the rooftop of St. Barts, three years ago? Confirmed deceased by DNA analysis."
"Yes."
"And you're absolutely certain that James Moriarty was the man that abducted you?"
"Without a doubt."
After they witnessed the explosions and hurriedly left the building, Sherlock had kept a hand at her waist for her unsteady gait and a paramedic had met them at the door, escorting Molly away to be taken to a hospital.
The only thing that Molly remembered with clarity between the time that she had been pulled inside the building and arriving at the hospital was that Sherlock had held her hand in the ambulance.
Well, that and the panic attack that had ensued when he had been forced to leave the room because of the exam that the doctors needed to perform to assess any injuries she might have sustained.
Minus the bruising ligature marks around her wrist, and mild oxygen deprivation, the worst Molly had suffered was psychological. However, because of the panic attack, she had been admitted for overnight observation.
Even if she had wanted to protest, she wouldn't have. An officer stood guard over her during the night and a nurse had been in every hour to monitor her vitals. Molly suspected that their presence was more of a contributing factor to the little sleep she was able to manage that night than the sedative had been.
Tom's flat was bigger than Molly's by a study and a balcony. Although it was seldom, one of her favorite things about staying over at his place had been waking up to watch the sunrise together – sometimes clad only in his bed would stand with his arms wrapped around her from behind and the only conversation that took place as the sun climbed higher in the sky was between the birds.
"Don't be silly, its bad enough I'm putting you out by staying here, I'm not going to make you sleep on the couch."
"You aren't making me do anything and you aren't putting me out. Take the bed, Molly."
"Tom."
"Molly, you've been through hell. The least I can do is let you recover in a decent bed."
She sighed, because it didn't matter how much she argued with him, she knew he wouldn't cave. If Molly could say two things about Tom, it was this: He was a gentleman if nothing else and he was also stubborn as hell.
"Well, its only for a few days, like I promised. Thanks again, for letting me stay."
"Of course. And I told you that you could stay here as long as you needed."
The silence that fell between them wasn't terribly uncomfortable, but it held its share of awkwardness.
It had been nearly two months since they had seen one another, having both attended a Christmas party hosted by a shared acquaintance. But, even before then, Molly and Tom had agreed they were better off as friends – maintaining the sentiment by occasionally going to the pub with friends or meeting up for lunch.
The days that followed her abduction, Molly jumped at every sudden movement or noise. Even now, four days later, she still had to set her mug down on the coffee table between sips to avoid dropping it.
The shadows on her bedroom wall would reshape themselves into the twisted grin of a mad man and the nights she was able to fall asleep were often cut short as she was jolted awake with a wordless cry from nightmares of meeting pavement.
After three nights, Molly knew she needed to find another place to stay, if only for a few days. Everywhere she had looked, she was only reminded of the times that Jim had been there and as reluctant as she was to admit it, she no longer felt safe in her own home. In fact, she no longer felt safe being alone period.
Despite their broken engagement, Molly was grateful she and Tom had moved forward on good terms. She hadn't necessarily meant to ask him, but with the exhaustion and choking fear that had refused to relent no matter how hard she tried, the question had practically jumped from her lips.
It made sense, in a strange sort of way, at least it made sense to her. If there was one thing Molly had always associated with Tom, it had been a stabilizing sense of safety. Ironically, that had been one of the qualities that Molly had realized she couldn't have gone through with marrying him because of, but as a friend, right now, it was exactly what she needed.
There was nothing she could relate Tom to Moriarty, no memories associated between the two, and it was that fact alone that had been cause for her hesitation in contacting Sherlock since she had last seen him at the hospital.
Despite the gnawing need for answers - /Where had he been? Why hadn't he contacted her in some way?/ - or wanting to see him again with a desire that ran bone deep like an ache, every time she had picked up her phone to text him, she simply couldn't bring herself to do so.
It wasn't just that when she thought of him, Jim's face flashed before her eyes, but also the dizzying anxiety that came with the conversation she knew she was going to have to have with him. That, coupled with the fact that since the hospital, Molly had felt as if someone had reached inside of her and rearranged her anatomy, as if the floor beneath her feet would shift out from underneath her at any moment; as if she were constantly walking through one of those rooms you found at a carnival in which you had to walk across the bridge while the room around you rotated. Everything together, all of it, had been overwhelming, disconcerting at best and it only served to make her morning sickness worst.
She wasn't sure if she was more relieved or hurt that he hadn't contacted her yet instead.
"Do you want more tea?"
"No, I'm okay, thanks."
Tom nodded and stood to gather the tea service before taking them into the kitchen. Molly took the opportunity to look around; Neither of them had gotten around to discussing whose flat would eventually become home to the other, and Molly tried for a moment to imagine how things would have been different. Tried to imagine waking up here every morning and coming home here every night.
Tried to imagine that her pregnancy would be something she was celebrating right now with the father, instead of anxiously trying to figure out a way to tell him. Something she hadn't thought she'd ever get the opportunity to do.
But as much as she tried, Molly simply couldn't see it. Even as her mind conjured up illusions, they were quickly crushed by reality. Even Toby had yet to surface from his cat carrier, despite having been here for hours already, and she wondered if the tabby felt the way she did- that no matter the amount of time nor the reason, this could never be /home/.
Something caught her attention as her eyes swept over the bookcase Tom had in his sitting room and she stood up, moving closer. It was a picture from their third date, still in the frame she had purchased as a gift for him. They had gone to an amusement park and had both just come from a ride - Molly's hair was a mess of tangles, but Tom had insisted they get it taken and so she had agreed.
It had been a good date, all in all.
"What's that?"
Molly jumped and nearly dropped the frame, only just managing to catch it in a fumble.
"Sorry, I didn't mean to startle you," he murmured as he joined her where she stood and took the frame she held out to him.
"Don't be silly, you shouldn't have to tiptoe around me."
Tom didn't respond at first, instead studying the image before he spoke. "I had forgotten about this. Do you remember Zippo?"
"Oh, yes. Poor Zippo." She smiled for what felt like the first time in days at the memory of the ridiculous stuffed monkey with the whimsical hat and the tiny bouquet of flowers attached to its hand that Tom had won in a ring toss and given to her. It had been adorable, despite being a bit childish, but she had come home to find the toy in shreds of fabric and stuffing one evening.
"Poor Zippo indeed."
"I'd suspect Toby had a good deal of fun dismembering him." She mused as he handed her the photo back and she returned it to its shelf.
"Of course, he learned from the best after all," Tom said as he leaned a shoulder against the book case and tucked his hands into the pockets of his trousers.
"You make what I do sound so…diabolical."
"It isn't what you do, it's how you do it."
Molly rolled her eyes at his teasing grin. "You're just jealous that you haven't got the stomach for it.."
"Hmm… maybe. The fact that you see it that way only shows what a morally deranged person you are."
"Oi!" She laughed as she gave him a playful swat and he held up his hands in mock surrender.
"That along with the fact that Toby cared about as much for me as he did Zippo, and knowing the damage you can do with a fork actually makes me a bit relieved that it didn't work out between us."
Tom was still smiling as he had said it, which was enough to show Molly that he had been joking. They had discussed it before, naturally, so it wasn't new territory. Even still, the comment stung and the smile fell from Molly's lips. She quickly recollected herself, clearing her throat as she turned to return to the couch without a word.
"Oh, Molls. Sorry, I didn't mean it like that," he followed her, taking the place beside her on the couch.
"It's fine," she murmured as she grabbed her purse from the floor beside her and quickly began rummaging through it in search of something to draw the attention away from the profoundly uncomfortable subject. It shouldn't have bothered her; after all, she had been the one to end it between them and the fact that she was even here was enough of a testament to the fact that things were okay between them. But even still, an overwhelming sense of shame and embarrassment welled up inside of her and she could feel tears burning just behind her eye lids.
Molly struggled to rationalize the sudden onslaught of emotions, and as she did, they morphed into something entirely different, something she realized wasn't even centered around her failed relationship.
"Molly?" Tom's voice was gentle. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean it. "
"It's fine," she repeated as she found her phone and pulled it out, because what better way to drown yourself out of situation than the internet? But before she could push the button to wake it from sleep, Tom hand covered her own. "It's not…tell me what's wrong."
Her shoulders twitched in a shrug, her hands stilling in his larger ones. Tom was silent for a moment, before it was his turn to clear his throat.
"You don't…You aren't having second thoughts about breaking off the engagement, are you?"
She shook her head, and he gave her hand a gentle squeeze.
"Then, tell me…"
In the aftermath of nearly dying, in the light of Sherlock's return, amidst the confusion and the fear of that seemed to be a constant haunting companion of every waking moment the past three days, and in consideration of the fact Molly hadn't spoken a word of her current predicament to anyone, the coil in which she had kept her emotions since the morning Sherlock had slipped out of her bedroom like a shadow, nothing left in the wake of his departure but the smell of him left to linger on her sheets had reached it maximum capacity for tension and she realized she needed to tell somebody…if she didn't, she would snap.
Even as she whispered them, the two words fell from her lips as if weighed with lead and they hit the air like the explosions that had taken out five buildings as she watched in horror.
"I'm pregnant."
Tom didn't respond immediately and Molly could only stare at his hand around hers, trying to imagine what expression he would be wearing at the news.
And then his arms were around her, tugging her body into the circle of his arms.
"It's his, isn't it?"
Stunned at his action, she could only nod and he held her tighter. Molly looked at him then, and in that moment, she had never been more grateful for Tom's presence in her life.
"And…?" He prompted her quietly.
"And …I have no idea what to do."
Sherlock Holmes
221B Baker St.
London NW1 6XE, United Kingdom
3/3/14
Dear Mr. Holmes,
I'm writing a personal missive to inform you that due to a recent error in filing, certain documents pertaining to the testimonies of those in attendance of the residence of the now deceased Charles A. Magnussen on the date of the 25th of December, 2013 have gone missing. I do not feel that I need to express the importance of such documents in the case of the alleged crime committed by yourself on that date. As it stands, we no longer have concrete ground in which to keep you detained to your residence in government custody. Furthermore, until the aforementioned documents can be recovered and reviewed, it has been agreed upon by the members of Parliament and myself that a probation has been granted to your person for an unspecified length of time. Might I suggest you use your newly granted freedom in benefit of recent developments.
Sincerely,
Lady Smallwood
Palace of Westminster
Westminster, London SW1A 0AA, United Kingdom
"Before we begin, I need to address that the only details that we can release at the present time are the number of victims who died in the explosions. All other information will be made available to the public as soon as we're able to do so. I'll take questions now."
A young woman who appeared to be in her late twenties stood, dressed in attire that was wholly suited for her position as a reporter. She held a recorder forward in efforts to catch the response to her question and pressed play before she spoke. "Can you confirm the speculation that the events of what happened at Big Ben and the explosions are connected?"
"Investigations are still underway and we've got our best on the case, however until further evidence surfaces, we have to assume that they are in fact related. The timing and location of their occurrences are too close to rule it out. Next question."
An older man with thinning hair stood, mimicking the first journalists actions with a recorder of his own. "People every where are panicking; is there reason to believe that another attack might be on its way? And if so, what can we do to avoid being a target?"
"The best thing for anyone right now is to try and remain calm. What happened four days ago was tragic and we also understand that people are frightened right now; however we can't predict if or when another attack will occur. Right now, our country is grieving over lives lost and Scotland Yard is doing everything we possibly can to try and find the person responsible. As far as we can tell, the buildings that were targeted were chosen at random."
Another woman stood; she wore black framed glasses and was rail thin with ginger hair pulled back and held in place with a pencil. "The woman who was tied to the clock face was Molly Hooper. Sources indicate that she and Sherlock Holmes have been friends for years now. Was her association with him the cause of her being targeted?"
By this point, the head of Scotland yard had begun to sweat. He had been informed prior to the press conference that the topic of Sherlock Holmes or Molly Hooper were to be dissuaded from. Suddenly the pinpoint gaze of one Mycroft Holmes could be felt on the back of his neck as if the mans stare was burning through his skin.
"As I stated previously, investigations are still under way. However, we believe each target was chosen at random. That's enough questions for now, Thank you."
"It can't possibly be him."
"Evidence would speak otherwise."
"Mycroft, I watched him blow his own brains out. It simply isn't possible."
"And he was also confirmed dead. I saw the body myself. That doesn't change the fact that the man in these photographs is undeniably him."
The photos were stills taken from the CV on the street in which Barts was located, each image taken from a different angle. Sherlock stared at them for only a moment, observing the features he had last seen only as the mouth was stretched wide and gun slipped inside, as the body of which had fallen backwards to meet concrete, lifeless.
"It's impossible." He murmured as he closed the manila folder containing the pictures and dropped them back onto Mycroft's desk unceremoniously, turning to retrieve the cup of tea that had been prepared for him. He took a sip as the sound of Mycroft's chair squeaked behind him, indicating that the older Holmes brother had stood. Sherlock kept his back to the man, staring down into the milky liquid in his cup as if it contained the answers he sought.
"Nothing's impossible." Mycroft's tone would be considered condescending to anyone who hadn't spent their entire life learning the way in which he operated.
"Is that a tone of pity I detect, dearest brother? I'd have thought one such as yourself would be above such sentimental idiocies. "
"Hardly, dearest brother. For what reason would I bestow pity on you? After all, you were certain you had been successful in completely dismantling Moriarty's network, a task that only took you two years to undertake. A task that was, it appears, a wasted effort. Certainly even the most mundane individual would have made the same mistake."
"I'd hardly call it wasted. Whoever is behind all of this is someone new- even you can't deny that the tactics are different… messier, this time. "
"Be that as it may, if the pictures are not concrete enough evidence for you, then certainly the word of Molly Hooper ought to be."
"How is that relevant?"
"She identified her assailant by name during the interrogation by M16. See for yourself."
Sherlock turned at the sound of paper being rustled and took the sheet of paper that Mycroft held out to him. The text was arranged into the format of a transcript, with the name of the person in bold before their statement. He studied the document, his eyes lingering over her name for a second longer than necessary.
"And you're taking her word for it? She wasn't exactly in reliable state of mind when I got to her. There could be any number of reasons she named him. Trauma, coercion, I'm assuming she was given some sort of medication, which could have affected her answer as well."
But the arch in Mycroft's brow seemed to personify just how cheap Sherlock's reasoning sounded to his own ears. There would be no other reason for Molly to give the name of a man who had been believed to be dead than had she honestly believed it to be him. And if the image of the man in the photographs where anything to go by, Sherlock had to admit that she would have had solid ground in which to believe it.
"How is she, by the way? Recovering well, I trust?"
The question caught him off guard, but even still, Sherlock was simply too well versed in keeping such reactions contained, if only by a fraction that was necessary.
"How should I know? Her personal well being is no concern of mine."
"Oh I doubt that, little brother."
"Yes, well, your opinion on the matter is even less of a concern. Besides, you're the British government, if anyone would be aware of her condition, it would be you."
Mycroft leaned back against his desk, his hands planted on either side of himself and his very stance sent a spike of irritation through Sherlock.
"You're entirely missing the point. "
"Oh?"
"Yes. You see, as you so keenly observed, I would, and in fact do, know exactly where and how Molly Hooper is right now. However, Sherlock, your reaction to her life being jeopardize has given the impression that she means something to you," Mycroft spoke the last four words without bothering to disguise his distaste for them.
"Which means, little brother, that regardless of whether it's true, you've painted a target on her forehead."
The truth in Mycroft's words had a similar effect to a bucket of ice water being emptied into his abdomen. It may have registered in his expression or even in the sudden tension in his shoulders, but whatever the case, Mycroft knew.
"I warned you, Sherlock. I've warned you time and again, to not get involved. Now because of your stubbornness, Ms. Hooper will forever have to look over her shoulder. That's hardly fair to her."
Sherlock couldn't keep himself from scoffing. "And since when have you cared about fairness?"
"Again, Sherlock, missing the point. Come now, even you aren't obtuse enough not to realize what this will mean."
"You seem far more concerned about Molly's well-being than I appear to be. Perhaps it's you who has gotten himself involved. Careful, Mycroft, people will talk."
"Don't be absurd. The only way in which I would be involved with her would be because of you. The only interest I have in Ms. Hooper is in regards to whatever…sentimental attachments you seem to have formed with her and the problems it's undoubtedly going to pose for me in the future."
"Molly is hardly something you need concern yourself with as these "sentimental" attachments as you've labeled them are purely out of appreciation for the services she was able to provide. Even you can't deny having some level of respect for her help."
"Naturally. Ms. Hooper performed her task proficiently."
"Then, please do tell, what are you on about? You are the one who retrieved me to rescue her, after all."
Mycroft crossed his arms then and the stance did nothing to lessen the air of superiority that clung to him like a second skin.
"I had no choice in the matter. However, she's being watched, Sherlock. By all of London, if not England. Don't you think it would be wise if you kept your distance?"
"You're hardly the person I'd seek out for wisdom. Besides, if she is, in fact a target, then doesn't it seem wise that I keep her close?"
"She has ample protection, I assure you."
"Hmm."
"For once in your life Sherlock, listen to me. Keep your distance from Molly Hooper."
"Not doing so before has suited me perfectly well thus far. Why would I start now?"
Two men stood facing a window that overlooked the whole of London. Even four days later, the sky was still hazy from the wreckage where buildings had once stood and in their destruction, viewable from the onlookers vantage, all that was left was the blackened remains of five buildings.
One of the figures in question clucked his tongue gently, his hands fisted in the pockets of his immaculately tailored suit, while the other held his hands clasped together behind his back, his posture almost painfully astute. Behind them on a desk carved from cherry mahogany was a copy of The Guardian, its front page hidden by the way that the newspaper had been spread open. The reader who had left it had had little interest in the coverage of the events he had had a hand in the making of. After all, he already knew the details, what was the point in wasting time reading poorly deduced speculation and errant facts?
Turning from his companion's side, he returned to his seat, each movement rigid and calculated, as if he were forcing each muscle into compliance and yet the graceful fluidity with which he moved spoke of little effort. Then again, the casual observer would simply assume it was due to the slightness of his body, the wraith-like figure demanding nothing less.
He turned his attention back to the only source of interest that the newspaper held for him, his eyes drinking in the words printed across the title, typed in bold lettering for accentuation.
HAT DETECTIVE RESCUES WOMAN FROM CERTAIN DEATH
"Always the hero." The reader murmured as he scanned the article he had already read three times, highlighting the actions of the subject from the moment he had stepped out of the car upon his arrival to his departure via ambulance with the victim. The article also noted how Sherlock Holmes had been unavailable for further questioning.
Foot steps muffled by the lush white fluff of the carpet brought the other occupant of the room closer before leaning over the shoulder of the first to scan the headlines himself.
"Who'd have thought that little Molly Hooper could crawl so far under Sherlock's skin."
"And what makes you so sure this is new? You obviously missed something the first time around."
"Last time I was around, he barely spared her a second glance. I'd suspect they've been shagging."
"Don't be crude, Jim."
"Suppose I have to find a new nickname for him now."