Isn`t it obvious?

I`m pulling out drawers randomly now, since not only do I not really know what it is I`m looking for, I have also stopped caring whether or not I`ve found it.

"Imperative, John."

"What is?"

"It is imperative that you find the lanyard. It`s possible that a-"

"Yeah, a man`s life might well depend on it - when isn't that a consideration for me doing supremely ill-advised and vaguely criminal jobs for you, Sherlock?"

"It isn't for me, John."

"No?"

"It's for science."

I rummage around in the third drawer down, realising that if Sanderson comes into his office on the fourth floor of Bart's at this very moment, the argument of Sherlock`s imperativeness will probably have little sway in my avoiding some degree of embarrassment and a possible moderate to severe slap on the wrist.

Staplers, glasses, pencils, a menu from a nearby sushi bar and a tatty looking business card depicting a stiletto shoe and the name `Lady Frances` in flamboyant script. I drop it like it's hot, and try to avoid any mental imagery of Sanderson and her ladyship. As I close the drawer as softly as possible and make to get out of Dodge in the next thirty seconds, I note an unusually placed object beneath the bottom drawer, just poking out a black corner. Some git once said that things being where they are not expected to be is usually worth noting, so my fingers stretch to gain purchase on the smooth, rectangular casing and I pull it out with a huff of effort.

Not an incriminating lanyard.

A phone.

Losing all sense of appropriateness and trespassing guilt, I slide it into my pocket, without really knowing why.

~x~

It's almost a week later that I remember the phone as I'm looking for loose change for the tube in my jacket pockets. It`s a fairly basic Nokia, at least five years old, dusty, and scuffed around the edges, with a slightly cracked screen. Prior knowledge of Sanderson being an inveterate phone snob assures me this could never have been his, so why was it in his office, lurking beneath his filing cabinet? Rifling round (yet again) in our kitchen crap drawer I unearth an old Nokia charger, pessimistically plugging it in. Probably won't even charge up. Probably knackered and cast aside. No SIM, so not missed by anyone. Probably.

The screen lights up instantly. No picture screen saver, no time or date setting. I really should let Sherlock take a look at it. He`d deduce the owner was a one-legged milliner with a predilection for almond croissants in around thirty seconds (on a bad day), but I'm not having much luck. No contacts, no photos, no messages, nothing.

That is, until I open up the phone's own memory, where, in an unnamed folder, I see message after message saved; scrolling and scrolling, I see hundreds and hundreds. Some are several paragraphs of carefully typed words (no ridiculous abbreviations for these people), some just consisting of a single word, but all ending in either one of two signatories:

SH

MH

~x~

I know I shouldn't read them - invasion of privacy in the most extreme sense - but how often do you have the chance to read the words of a dead man? All the texts between Sherlock Holmes and Molly Hooper date from the day he jumped from the roof at Bart's, and end one week before he appeared at my table with a bottle of champagne and a vastly inappropriate demeanour. Some are minutes apart, and some have whole weeks between them, but there was always communication, always a two-way street. So, yes, I read them. I read them and parts of me wish I'd never seen that corner of a phone poking out from what lay beneath, since now I can never un-read them and carry on as before, in an only half-imagined understanding of what was set out before me…

x

I can`t catch my breath-very dark in here. SH

The harness will have bruised you. The trauma is real and jarring. Close your eyes. It`s OK. You are OK. You are safe. MH

Breathe, Sherlock. Deep breaths. One at a time. MH

Sherlock? MH

What have I done? SH

x

The inside of the area behind the iconostasis reaches through the Beautiful Gates (or Angel Doors), and is called the sanctuary. Gold everywhere. Within this area is the altar table, which is more often called the holy table or throne - there are markings beneath which are more than familiar to me, and most out of place in this church. There is also the Chapel of Prothesis on the north side where the offerings are prepared in the Proskomedia before being brought to the altar table and the holy vessels are stored; I notice that the Diaconicon is on the south side where they keep the vestments. Perhaps a place to hide also? Hard to believe, Molly, but orthodox altars are usually square. Traditionally they have a heavy brocade outer covering that reaches all the way to the floor, so where has this one disappeared to? Curious. All these Eastern Orthodox altars seem to have a saint's relics embedded inside them, usually that of a martyr, placed at the time they are consecrated. One wonders what your autopsy methods might make of such ad-hoc burial techniques? The light in here is quite breathtaking. What time is it in London? SH

I am eating cheese with my feet on a hot water bottle. Dexter has taken too many risks now. He is sure to get caught. Why doesn't his sister see him for what he is? Lazy writers. It`s a little after midnight.

PS Wherever you are now - sounds unhygienic. MH

x

How is John? SH

Molly? SH

Defeated. MH

x

Have you got antibiotics? MH

Yes. SH

If your ankle still looks red and angry in twenty-four hours, call Mycroft. MH

Yes. SH

I mean it. MH

Don't fuck with me Sherlock. MH

I won`t. SH

x

Merry Christmas Sherlock. MH

And a happy new year. Wherever you may be. MH

x

Twenty four hours of rain is twenty hours too many. I look out of my window and all I see are concrete walls, buildings, decay and destruction. It's been fifteen hours since I`ve heard from anyone and I suspect the man in the tower block opposite has murdered his wife. SH

A picture of unicorn riding a rainbow. Thank you, Molly Hooper. SH

x

There can be no good come from this election result. SH

Preach. MH

x

How can a pope resign? MH

He lost his way? MH

Poor focus. SH

x

I felt him to be immortal. MH

No-one lives forever, Molly. SH

Jesus.

Madonna.

Nelson Mandela.

Upsetting. MH

Inevitable. SH

x

How is John? SH

OK. Better. MH

Good. That's good. SH

He has someone. A girlfriend. MH

Serious? SH

Yes. I think it is. MH

Good. SH

He will never stop missing you, Sherlock. MH

Irrelevant. SH

And you can stop with that crap, too. MH

x

I can hear footsteps. They will destroy my phone. Water is getting in somehow. I`m sitting in four inches already. Calculations poor. Thinking is slow. Cold is biting. Slowing me down. SH

Stay calm. Mycroft is close. It`s going to be fine. You are going to be fine. You are the strongest man I know. MH

I can see stars. Orion`s belt. Same sky as you. Foolish. Sentiment. SH

The cold is affecting you. Let them find you. Get out of that container; you are freezing to death. Please. MH

They are at the door. Six inches. So cold. Don`t leave me, Molly. SH

I will never leave you, Sherlock. MH

x

Molly Hooper unloops her parka from the hook in her locker, and as she does so, notices a small, rectangular piece of black plastic, placed deliberately against the bottom, right-hand corner. It is quite the jaunty angle, and she half expects a note to be accompanying her precious, long-lost phone, explaining its devastating absence- but of course there isn`t. Blood pounds in her ears as she gently lifts it, half-expecting a puff of smoke or shimmering hologram to dissipate her joy, but it is solid, smooth, real- a tangible reward for her silent, desolate patience.

Clutching it close to her, Molly closes her eyes, offers a silent prayer and simultaneously realises how ridiculous she is being whilst being unable to not be. If she couldn't hold those three years in the palm of her hand, how could she believe they had ever been real?

~x~