Author's note:
Hi everyone! I just wanted to thank you for the lovely reviews! I am very grateful.
Thank you also to MGKaller, for offering to help.
Very special thanks to SammyKatz, Mrspencil, Rocking the Redhead and Crimson and Chrome 42, for their continued support.
Right, let's get back to the story!
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She was doing CPR.
Molly wasn't quite sure for how long she had been at it, but her arms hurt.
She would have called out for help, but she had to save her breath to fill his lungs.
Come on.
A crack. She had broken one of his ribs.
That could happen, doing CPR. The doctor would forgive her when he woke up.
Because he was going to wake up.
Come on!
She barely registered the sound of someone calling her name, softly.
Molly didn't respond and continued counting, unaware of the tears streaming down her cheeks.
She hardly felt the hands on her shoulders as they gently tore her away from the doctor.
Molly was dimly aware of someone holding her close. She felt his arms, firm but gentle, wrap around her as she pounded his chest and cried to let her go.
Let her go.
He didn't understand.
Please. Please, let her go.
He didn't release her, allowing her to hit him.
She felt a hand on the back of her head, pulling her to him and his embrace.
It felt warm. Safe.
Finally, she wept.
Molly sobbed and cried, supported by his arms as they cradled her.
She felt his chin resting on her head, his hand stroking her hair as he held her tightly to him.
When she began to calm down, she felt those arms leave her, replaced by a blanket.
Drained, Molly opened her eyes to see Bonlieu talking with police officers, John retrieving some hospital slippers for her to wear -oh, right, she wasn't wearing any shoes...-
And Sherlock crouched by the...Oh God...The corpse.
A nurse offered to take her inside, but the pathologist shook her head.
She wanted to be there. She needed to be.
Molly moved closer to the three men and listened to them talk, while they examined her mentor.
"The wounds weren't made by a knife or dagger, look at the shape." Sherlock mused.
John nodded at the circular stabs "An ice pick, maybe?"
"There is the beginning of a bruise." Molly's voice broke slightly, but her countenance strengthened as she pointed to Paten's chest.
John and Bonlieu looked up at her in surprise, but Sherlock's eyes fixed on the spot she had indicated.
The mark was triangular, a short distance from one of the puncture wounds.
"What could have done this?" John wondered. Sherlock smiled in understanding. It finally made sense.
"It's a high heel."
"What?"
"On the ambassador in London we had seen a small circular bruise on the sternum. It was made by a stiletto, remember? Now I know why it bothered me:
The killer has at least one shoe that hides an ice-pick like weapon in its heel. In London, there was a malfunction and the point failed to emerge from the heel when needed. Here, on the other hand, the shoe worked perfectly... However, unlike the other victims, Paten knew who she was and fought back, making this a less 'efficient' murder."
"It would be fairly easy for a woman to travel with something like that. High heels often have metal in them, nobody at the airport would think twice about it." The consulting detective added. This killer liked things clean and discreet, with as little confrontation as possible. She relied heavily on the element of surprise, and if that was lost things became...Messy.
John, Sherlock and Bonlieu moved to inspect the sign doctor Paten had left on the cement. It was a circle with an arrow emerging from it.
"The symbol of Mars." Sherlock mused.
. "Was he trying to say he died fighting?"The French agent pondered, shrugging.
John shook his head. "That wouldn't have been important enough for him to waste energy writing it."
The consulting detective's brow furrowed. Mars is the symbol of the god of war and its homonymous planet, but it also represents Tuesday and masculinity...
The last two seemed more relevant. Either the doctor was trying to emphasise the second day of the week, or he wanted to bring a man to Sherlock's voiced his thoughts aloud.
"But that wasn't the most important message." He added.
"What do you mean?" Bonlieu asked, brow raised. "The man didn't say a word!"
"He took your hand." John noted softly.
Sherlock held up the fingers that had gripped his own.
The nails were dirty with blood. He had fought back for a reason...
The consulting detective smiled.
"Doctor Paten has given us a tissue sample from the killer."
.
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John had offered to take Molly back to her lodgings, and when she gave the address it was quite a surprise to find they were staying in the same place. Sherlock had muttered something darkly under his breath about his brother, but John glared at him and he fell silent, even when his friend invited her to have a cup of tea together. Molly accepted, but first went to change into her old, blood-free clothes.
Now the consulting detective, the soldier and the pathologist sat silently in the men's hotel room.
"We need to alert his next of kin." John began hesitantly. "I'm sorry to say, I don't know..."
"I'll do it." Molly stood quietly. She pulled out her phone, walked to the door and dialled his ex wife's number.
"Hello?"
"Hello, doctor Hoffe. It's Molly..."
While she spoke to Amélie Hoffe, John and Sherlock discussed the case.
Why was the killer murdering ambassadors? What was her motive?
What did Paten mean with that symbol?
Where would she strike next?
It would take a couple of days for the tissue sample results, a new victim could be added to the list by then.
His eyes opened when he heard silence. Molly's call was finished. Sherlock watched the pathologist, her back turned to him. Her hunched shoulders heaved as she took a deep sigh, then straightened as she turned, a smile frozen on her lips. Sherlock looked away before she saw him looking at her.
"So." She said, walking over to the coffee table where the newspapers lay. "What do we know so far?'"
John, happy to keep her mind occupied, listed all the information they had about the case. He purposefully avoided any names, although it was probably a useless excercise. Molly sat down on the sofa next to the doctor, whilst Sherlock remained on the armchair, his eyes closed and his fingers steepled under his chin.
"What we need to find now." He continued. "Is who her next target is."
Molly's brow furrowed. "She is going after ambassadors, right? Would she pretend to be a British citizen in trouble to meet them?"
John pondered this for a moment. "She might...But I'm not sure it would work if she did it with each embassy she goes to: if a picture of hers were to circulate, people would soon find out it's always her, especially now..."
Sherlock's brow furrowed.
The ambassador in Paris wanted to have an affair with her, and he suspected the London victim was of the same mind, and he was fairly young and unmarried. The killer was, presumably, a very attractive woman, elegantly dressed...An important event, then? One where lots of people would be present? She might meet them there...
His eyes flashed open and he grabbed the newspaper. The Prime minister ad interim covered most of the front page, but that didn't interest the consulting detective. He shad a hunch and...Yes!
"Paris fashion week!" He cried triumphantly, throwing the paper, with the article on Chanel's last show. John looked quizzically at his friend. "Yes?"
"Last week was London fashion week!" Sherlock cried in frustration. "Don't you get it?"
The doctor's eyes widened as the penny dropped.
"Where's the next fashion week?" Sherlock was talking on the phone.
"Hello to you too, Sherlock. Has our mother completely failed in teaching you good manners?"
"Where is the next fashion week?" His brother yelled.
"Hold on...Italy. Milan fashion week."
"Right."
"Sherlock, wait."
"What is it?"
"Give my condolences to Molly, please."
Sherlock put the phone down and looked at his friend. "Get your stuff, John. We're going to Italy, right now."
"I'm coming, too."
The consulting detective didn't even turn around to look at her. "No."
"Please, Sherlock..."
He stormed out of the common room and closed the door behind him.
Shortly after, he heard it softly open again.
"Sherlock..."
"No."
"You have to let her come with us."
"Go away."
"I know you're worried, but..."
"Worried about what? Molly simply has to take doctor Paten's corpse back to England."
"His wife will take care of that!"
"She can't come, John."
"Don't be so bloody stubborn!"
"Stubborn?" Sherlock growled. "Are you blind? Didn't you see what happened to the last doctor who followed us, John? Have you already forgotten what happened to doctor Paten? She..." Sherlock halted, realising he had raised his voice. He composed himself, jaw set. "She'd just be a burden, that's all."
John understood, but his eyes, unwavering and solemn, held his friend's as he calmly spoke.
"If you don't let her come, Molly will never forgive you."
Silence fell on the room. Then Sherlock looked away.
"John , I..."
"Sherlock." he turned to see Molly standing at the door, grim determination in her countenance. She took a deep breath, as if gathering courage from the air, then spoke. "Either with you or alone, I'm going to Italy. If you don't want me with you, that's fine, but I'm still going to find that cow, one way or another."
Sherlock looked at her. The make-up was gone, washed away by tears, her hair was in disarray and she was wearing that horrendous jumper with the giant blue cat...Molly held her chin up defiantly, clutching her bag protectively.
She looked so small.
Sherlock turned away and picked up his suitcase.
John sighed. "I'll call the taxi."