Life After Death - A Post-Reichenbach Trilogy

Part Three – Unfinished Business

Chapter Fifteen

Once it was confirmed that Molly no longer needed the services of the ICU, Mycroft suggested she be moved to an exclusive private hospital in the centre of London, to receive recuperative care. Molly was compliant with the arrangement, as it meant she was closer to William and it made it easier for Sherlock to bring him to visit her. She had long since given up trying to persuade Mycroft not to go to great expense on her behalf, since cost seemed to be of no importance to him.

Sherlock was happy with the move, too, as it meant that Molly would be no longer in the same building as her abductor whom he suspected, despite being under police guard, might be inclined to try something drastic, should the opportunity present itself. So it was arranged for Molly to transfer, by private ambulance, the following day.

ooOoo

Now that Molly was out of danger, Sherlock did not feel the need to spend every waking hour at her bedside, so it was agreed that he would move in to Molly's flat, temporarily, and take over William's care from Mrs Hudson, enabling her to return home, for a well-earned rest because, although William was by and large a well-behaved, co-operative child, he was still a lively two year old and Mrs Hudson was a lady in her eighth decade.

Molly and Sherlock agreed that it would be best for William to get back into some sort of routine so Sherlock took him to the crèche every day, leaving himself free to spend time at Baker Street, working on cold cases, sourced from the few unsolved crime web sites that had not yet blocked him, because of his solving success rate.

Other than the general feeling of frailty, and the injuries to her wrists and ankles, Molly was making a good recovery from her ordeal. However, on the first night in the private hospital, which Molly thought was more like a luxury spa hotel than any hospital she had ever been in, the emotional trauma showed its face.

Molly awoke, screaming, in the middle of the night, waking half the other patients on her floor and bringing the night nurse racing to her room. She was so distressed that the nurse sent for the on-call doctor, to sedate her. This incident was duly reported to Mycroft, when he rang for an up-date on the patient the next morning. He arrived at the hospital an hour later, to see how Molly was for himself.

When he entered her room, he thought she looked fragile and pale. He gave her his customary peck on each cheek and sat in the bed side chair.

'What happened last night, Molly?' he asked, with concern.

'It was just a nightmare but it felt so real,' Molly explained. 'I was in my flat with William and I turned around and she was there, pointing that gun at me. Then she pulled the trigger and I woke up screaming.'

Molly looked close to tears. Mycroft took her hand, comfortingly.

'Mycroft, I don't know if I can ever go back there,' Molly gasped. 'It's my home and I love it and, what's more important, it's William's home, the only one he has ever known but the thought of walking back in there makes me feel as though… I'm going to die.'

Mycroft considered her words then replied,

'Molly, a house is made by builders but a home is made by love and care. We can find you another flat.'

'Yes, but then she will have won, won't she, that awful woman?' Molly sobbed, tears welling in her eyes.

'Then we need to deal with this,' Mycroft stated. 'Leave it with me, Molly. I'll speak to someone.'

Mycroft stayed a little longer, just to see that Molly had everything she needed and then left to travel the short distance to his Whitehall office. Climbing into the back seat of his car, he was already dialling on his mobile phone.

ooOoo

Sherlock was working on one of those ancient historical mysteries he'd found on the Internet when the doorbell to 221B rang.

'Get that, would you, John,' he called, completely engrossed in the experiment he was conducting. It was only when the bell rang a second time and he took a deep breath to shout up to John's room, that he suddenly remembered that John no longer lived there. He sat up straight, rather taken aback by his memory lapse.

Working with John and Lestrade in the hunt for Molly and William had been so like old times. He had to admit, to himself at least, that part of him had actually enjoyed pitting his wits against Bernadette Jamieson, despite it being a deeply traumatic experience for all concerned. How he wished those days could return. The bell rang a third time and then his iPhone chirped a text alert. He opened the text. It was from D.I. Greg Lestrade.

Are you going to answer the bloody door or not? I know you're in there.

Sherlock trotted down the stairs to the front door and let Lestrade in.

'About bloody time, too,' he snorted, as he stood back to let Sherlock pass him in the hall and lead the way up to the flat. Once upstairs and with the kettle switched on, Sherlock turned to his friend and said,

'So what can I do for you?'

'Actually, it's what I can do for you,' Lestrade announced.

'Really?' Sherlock snorted with derision. 'Hmm, there's a first time for everything, I suppose. But Inspector, please don't prolong the agony of anticipation…' he remarked, flippantly.

'We must be coming up for some kind of inspection or an audit, or something and there seems to be a bit of a backlog of unsolved crimes, which the management find a bit inconvenient…'

'Are you asking me to look at these cases?' Sherlock interrupted, slightly irritated by Lestrade's long-winded preamble.

'I have been requested by the Assistant Commissioner to invite you to consult on some of these cases, yes,' the D.I. confirmed.

'What kind of cases?' Sherlock asked, warily.

'All kinds,' replied Lestrade.

'Little old ladies' lost cats?' snorted Sherlock.

'Sherlock, do you want it or not?' Lestrade retorted, irritably.

'I don't want to do any boring stuff,' he replied.

'Look, this is a foot in the door, mate,' Lestrade explained, opening his hands, in a placatory gesture. 'It shows that their attitude towards you is softening. It's a start, isn't it?'

Sherlock was secretly rather pleased by this development but he was not about to admit that too readily. He assumed a pensive attitude as he made two mugs of tea and passed one to the inspector. Then, inviting Lestrade to be seated in John's chair, he sat in his favourite chair, opposite, and continued to feign deep thought.

Lestrade suspected that this was a sham but he appreciated that his friend had his pride and would not wish to appear too eager, so he sipped his tea and waited patiently. At last, Sherlock spoke.

'Where will I be working?' he asked, warily.

'You would have to work at the Yard.'

'Why?'

'We can't allow police files out of the building. If the press were to get wind of it, they would have a field day. Imagine the headlines: 'Confidential police files found in Baker Street bin'. I'd be pounding the beat, before I could draw a breath.'

'Why would I put them in my bin?'

'Just go with me on this one, Sherlock. I cannot let you take files out of the Yard.'

'I could access them on my lap top.'

'Some of them are hard copy only.'

'What about the Black Museum?'

'What?'

'The Black Museum.'

'What about the Black Museum?'

'I asked you that.'

'Are you trying extra hard to piss me off or is that just your default position?'

'I could work in the Black Museum.'

The Black Museum was a museum of criminology, housed within New Scotland Yard. Unlike similar institutions, this one was not open to the public.

'Ah… Right… That's an idea,' mused Lestrade, mulling over the idea. 'That could work.'

He thought about it some more and said,

'Let me get back to you on that.'

'Will these be cold cases?' Sherlock asked.

'No, actually, they are mostly live cases but no one is actually working on them. They are in limbo.'

'Would John be able to work with me?'

'I don't see why not, if he wants to, but he's working at St Mary's isn't he?'

'Will I get paid?'

Sherlock looked at Lestrade, speculatively.

'We've never paid you before.'

'I have responsibilities now, in case you hadn't noticed.'

'I'll check on that, OK?

'Fine,' replied Sherlock, with a satisfied nod.

ooOoo

Later that afternoon, Mycroft arrived back in Molly's hospital room, accompanied by a lady in a smart black suit. He introduced the two women to each other.

'Molly, this is Dr Eve Matthews. I believe she can help you deal with the issues you have with regard to the flat. She is the best in her field.'

Molly looked at the lady, intrigued but also wary.

'I will leave you ladies to become acquainted,' Mycroft said, and took his leave. Dr Matthews took the chair next to Molly's bed.

'Mycroft says you are the best in your field. What field is that?' Molly asked.

'I'm a psychotherapist,' relied the doctor.

'OK,' said Molly, 'so how do we do this?'

'Well, to begin with, I'd like to help you to relax. You seem quite tense. After your recent experiences, I would be surprised if you weren't. This is a normal reaction to an abnormal situation, so you are doing all the right things, so far.'

'Yes, well, that's good to know. I thought I was going mad,' remarked Molly, ironically.

'Let's begin with you telling me about yourself.'

Eve Matthews' voice was very soothing and the questions she asked were not difficult to answer so Molly found herself relaxing a little. After a few minutes of casual conversation, Dr Matthews said she would like to teach Molly some relaxation techniques.

'Will that help me get back to my flat?' Molly asked.

'Indirectly, yes. The more you can control your stress levels, the easier it will be to confront your fears.'

'That sounds logical,' Molly agreed. 'Can I ask you something?'

'Certainly, although I may not be able to give you an answer.'

'How do you know Mycroft?'

'I do some work for him, from time to time.'

'Psychological work?'

'That's quite a broad definition.'

'Do you carry out debriefing?'

The doctor smiled.

'Mycroft said you were intuitive. Yes, that is one of my functions.'

'Did you work on Sherlock's debriefing?'

'That information is classified. But, perhaps, under the circumstances, I can tell you that I am familiar with that particular operation.'

'Well, that's good enough for me.'

'Really? Why so?'

'If you managed to get Sherlock to cooperate you must be a very skilled practitioner so I am willing to trust you.'

'Trust between patient and therapist is very important,' the doctor agreed.

'So, shall we get on with it, then?' Molly prompted.

'Yes, let's,' Eve Matthews agreed, with a smile.

ooOoo

On his way to collect William from the crèche, Sherlock pondered on the phone conversation he had had with Mycroft, concerning Molly's difficulties. His over-whelming sense of responsibility for her situation had returned with a vengeance. How casually he had involved her in his plot to subvert and destroy Moriarty's evil empire. He should have guessed that his actions would have consequences.

He should have considered all the possibilities at the planning stage but, in doing so, he would have been rendered impotent, a victim of over-analysis. Caring was definitely NOT an advantage. He contemplated the reality of having to deliberate much more in the future, with the well-being of his son to consider. How complicated his life had suddenly become.

Having collected William, he hailed a cab to take them to visit Molly.

She had spent the afternoon practicing the relaxation techniques that Dr Matthews had taught her. If she had nightmares that night, she would try using these to calm herself. It would be quite a test of her prowess as a quick learner, she thought. But she put the whole matter from her mind when Sherlock arrived, with William, and spent a pleasant hour cuddling and playing with her child.

Sherlock seemed distant and pensive during the visit. She guessed that Mycroft had spoken to him about her but he would never bring it up in front of William. For her part, she was just glad that William had not known what was happening, in the flat that night. He still thought of it as a place of safety and had no reason to feel at risk there. She was thankful for such small mercies.

When it was time to leave, Sherlock lent over to enable her to kiss his cheek. So, he did notice, after all, she thought.

That night, the nightmares were back but, this time, it was different. Molly was in the bathroom, spelling out the message in magnetic letters and, as she went through into the sitting room, the woman was holding William with the gun against his head. She woke up, hyperventilating, fearing she was suffering a heart attack.

As she opened her eyes and sat up in bed, remembering where she was, she tried employing the technique she had learned that day. Concentrating on her breathing helped control the hyperventilation but the image left in her mind of the woman and the gun made it difficult to go back to sleep. Every time she closed her eyes, it was there. She eventually dozed off at around five a.m., as it was just beginning to get light, and dreamed she was in a dark hole, feeling around in the blackness, looking for a shoe.

Dr Matthews arrived at around ten a.m. and was very impressed with Molly's report that she had calmed herself after the nightmare. It boded well for the future success of the process. Getting immediately down to business, Eve asked Molly to close her eyes and take her on a virtual tour of her flat.

'Where would you like to begin?' the doctor asked.

'At the front door,' Molly replied.

'OK. We are standing at the front door,' confirmed the doctor, and waited for Molly to continue.

'I'm putting the code into the key pad and opening the door,' Molly began. 'We're in the front hall and my flat door is on the left. We're crossing to the door and I'm opening it with my key. We walk into the hallway.'

'How do you feel?'

'I feel a bit nervous but not too bad.'

'OK. Use your breathing technique to ease that and, when you're ready, carry on.'

Molly did as advised then continued the tour.

'We're going into the sitting room.'

She felt her pulse rate rise and the warmth leech from her skin. Her chest tightened and breathing became difficult.

'This was where…she had the gun…in her hand and…William…William…'

'Molly, use your breathing technique. Use the technique,' Eve urged. 'She's not there now. She was there before, but she is locked up now. She can't hurt you or William anymore.'

Molly listened to the voice and, summoning all her will power and self-control, she applied the technique and gradually felt the panic subside until she heaved a great sigh and felt normal again. She opened her eyes and turned toward the therapist. She looked pale and she felt exhausted but she had managed the panic attack.

'That was very good, Molly. Excellent, in fact,' Dr Matthews congratulated her. 'But I think that's enough for today.'

Molly closed her eyes with relief. She did not want to do that again, right now.

'You keep practicing those relaxation techniques and we'll try again tomorrow.'

With the doctor gone, and lying on top of the bed covers in her dressing gown, Molly drifted off to a dreamless sleep.

ooOoo

The next day, it was with mixed feelings that Molly anticipated her session with the doctor. She had not had a nightmare over-night, which was definitely progress, but she knew she needed to get further into the flat than last time. She was also aware that these virtual tours were just a rehearsal for the real thing. She would have to face the flat in reality soon.

She was also a little concerned about Sherlock. He had brought William to see her as usual, the night before, but had been withdrawn and distracted again, like the day before. This filled her with trepidation, for a reason she could not quite define.

Dr Matthews arrived at ten a.m. again and the session began.

In her mind's eye, Molly led the way into the flat once more. As she came into her hallway, through the internal door, she felt the rise in heart rate and the cold sweat spreading over her body. She visualised taking hold of the hand of the doctor, whom she imagined to be walking right beside her, and she took some steadying breaths.

I must do this, she thought.

'I'm in the sitting room,' she began. 'Here is where the woman sat watching William, with the gun by her side.'

She paused and practiced her breathing.

'I'm walking into the kitchen. Here is where she pointed the gun at my chest.'

'You are doing very well, Molly. Remember, she's not there now. She can't hurt you,' the therapist reassured her.

Molly felt the panic rising but did not allow it to over-come her.

'Now I'm going into William's bedroom. Here is where I packed William's hold-all.'

She saw herself, in her head, packing as though for a normal sleep-over but in a blind panic. She paused and practised the technique until she felt the panic subside to a manageable level, then went on again.

'I am going into William's bathroom. Here I arranged the letters to tell Sherlock who I thought she was and that she had a gun'.

'You can stop, now,' the doctor advised, in a soothing voice, and Molly sat back against the pillows, in the hospital room, once more. She realised cheeks were wet with tears, yet she had not even known she was crying. Dr Matthews handed her a tissue and gave her a moment or two to compose herself.

'You are doing extremely well, Molly. I think you covered all the stress points that time.'

'I tried to,' Molly replied. 'I have to do this, so I can go home and be with my son again. I just wish I didn't cry so much.'

'Crying is good,' Eve insisted. 'It's a release valve. And, trust me, after what you've been through, you really need to cry.'

'Did Sherlock cry?'

The question was out before Molly even realised. The doctor considered whether or not to give an answer, then said,

'Sherlock did a lot of things and crying was one of them.'

This time, after the therapist left, Molly took a long, hot shower and visualised washing that mad woman's presence out of her life. That's what she needed to do, to clean that woman out of her house. She would speak to Sherlock, when he came today, about getting some professionals in to do a thorough deep clean, like they did at the hospital, after a Norovirus epidemic, last winter. She hoped this wasn't just another compulsive response. She did not want to become an obsessive cleaner. However, she concluded that this was unlikely.

After her shower, Molly lay on the bed, wondering how Sherlock's debrief experience had differed from her own. She called it her 'debriefing' because it made her feel more proactive and less like a victim. That was the worst part of the ordeal - the feeling of helplessness, of being completely in the power of someone else. She needed to get her self-determination back.

ooOoo

It being Saturday, Sherlock and William spent the day at Regents Park Zoo, mostly in the B.U.G.S. exhibit, looking primarily at the invertebrates, which were William's particular favourites. They saw cave crickets, cockroaches, leaf cutter ants and a swarm of locusts, as well as giant Orb spiders, Honey bees in a hive, mole rats, golden frogs and a tank full of moon jellyfish.

William was absolutely fascinated by all the animals and spent nearly half an hour watching the ants go about their business, and an equal amount of time enthralled by the hypnotic pulsing of the moon jelly fish. When it was home time, he was only persuaded to leave by the reminder that he was going to see Mummy.

Father and son took the bus, William's preferred mode of transport, from just outside the zoo to a stop near the clinic. On the bus, they sat upstairs at the front, and William pointed at all the land marks that caught his eye, asking,

'What dat?' and listening intently to Sherlock's explanations.

Carried the short distance from the bus stop, and rocked by the movement of Sherlock's long-striding gait, William was lulled to sleep, his head resting on his father's shoulder. When they arrived in Molly's room, Sherlock found her sitting in the arm chair, looking much better than she had on either of his two previous visits. He assumed that the sessions with his own nemesis, Eve Matthews, were going well. This thought brought back some uncomfortable memories, so he quashed it.

As Sherlock passed him to Molly, William roused but only long enough to say, 'Mummy', and then he was asleep again.

'You've worn him out,' she remarked.

'The zoo wore him out. He really loves creepy-crawlies. I think he would stay all night if they would let him.'

Molly was pleased that Sherlock was more communicative today. They talked about her recuperation and she asked him about getting the flat deep cleaned. He said he would see to it, first thing Monday morning. Then there was a lull in the conversation. In thoughtful repose, Sherlock looked troubled.

'Is everything OK with you?' Molly asked.

He looked instantly guilty and she wished she had not asked but he recovered quickly and shrugged.

'I just have a lot on my mind at the moment. Lestrade says he might have some work for me. I'm just waiting to see what he comes up with.'

Molly knew this was a lie. The prospect of work would make him relaxed and happy, not withdrawn and pensive. But she didn't pursue it. If he didn't want to talk about it, that was his prerogative, but it did worry her that he felt the need to lie. It was a foreign concept to him. He was known for his brutal honesty. She had to switch off this train of thought because it was too distressing.

'Greg hasn't sent anyone to take my statement yet,' she remarked, clutching at the diversion.

'He said it could wait until you're fully recovered,' Sherlock replied.

'No, I'd rather do it now,' she declared. 'I want to get it over with before I leave here.'

'You'll still have to give evidence at the trial,' he reminded her.

'Yes, but that's months away. I want to get this part sorted as soon as possible,' Molly insisted.

Sherlock promised to relay this request to Lestrade. The rest of the visit passed with casual conversation until it was time to leave and Sherlock took the still-sleeping William home for supper, bath and bed.

ooOoo

Sunday lunchtime, Sherlock and William met John and Mary for a pub lunch on the river. It was a family-friendly place with a nice beer garden which had a couple of swings and a climbing frame to entertain the children. They ordered their meals and, while they waited for them to be served, Mary took William to play on the climbing frame, which was designed to look like a fort, with ladders, a rope bridge and a slide. Sherlock sat watching them, with frown lines around his eyes. John sat watching him and, eventually, asked,

'What's the problem, mate?'

Sherlock switched his attention to John and thought for a moment before speaking.

'How do you do it, John?

'Do what?' John replied, looking puzzled.

'Domesticity.'

John raised his eyebrows.

'You make it look so easy,' Sherlock muttered, running his hand through his hair, which was almost as long now as it had been before he went away.

'That's because, for me, it is. I knew as soon as I met Mary that she was the right one for me. We just clicked.'

'Oh, right,' Sherlock nodded, slightly mockingly, 'the magic click. Love at first sight, was it?'

'No, not love. Lust, definitely, but not love. That came later. But we just got on well together, laughed at the same things, liked the same music – well, mostly, you know.'

'No, I don't know. I really don't,' Sherlock replied.

After a short silence, while John looked at his friend with genuine sympathy and regret, Sherlock seemed to give himself a mental shake then said,

'Lestrade's been in touch. He wants us to work for him. Or rather, he wants me to work for him and I want you to work with me.'

John looked interested.

'We're still sorting out the details but are you up for it?'

'Fuck, yes!' John replied, with a small whoop of sheer delight, then, reining in his enthusiasm for a moment, said,

'Well, it would have to fit in round my shifts at the hospital, of course, but, my God, am I up for it!'

Sherlock smiled, broadly – a rare occurrence but one that lit up his whole face and made his eyes sparkle.

'God, I've missed this,' he said. 'I can't begin to say how much!'

ooOoo