John looked around, stifling a yawn.
At the airport they had been greeted by Mycroft's driver, who silently escorted them to meet his boss. Sherlock's brother had welcomed them with a cup of tea, served with an air of elegance and mild disappointment.
Five cups of Muscatel Darjeeling and three hours of debriefing later, the two siblings had not yet finished discussing the events of the past few weeks...And John's legs felt numb.
Sherlock spoke on, unperturbed. "The man Molly identified as her taxi driver stepped backwards into the oncoming train, his hands outstretched to his sides."
"Unwavering?" Mycroft asked sombrely.
"He kept his eyes on me, and barely blinked when he heard the train."
"It was a voluntary suicide." Mycroft voiced his brother's opinion. "So this man wasn't coerced or bought... "
"He was blindly loyal, even to his death." Sherlock agreed. "The member of a sect, perhaps..."
John shifted uncomfortably in the leather and mahogany armchair, feeling slightly like a little child in church: bored, restless and painfully aware that he was supposed to just sit still and listen to what was being said, although the words had become increasingly incomprehensible to him despite his best efforts.
Sherlock seemed completely oblivious to his friend's plight, entirely focused on the string of deductions he used to form a web of hypotheses with skilful speed. His brother, leaning back in his chair with his legs crossed, occasionally raised his brow and interjected to correct an idea or suggest a possibility, and had the countenance of someone who was almost enjoying himself.
The doctor perked up when the conversation seemed to be waning.
"Is that everything?" Mycroft asked, lifting the teacup from its saucer.
"Yes." Sherlock didn't flinch. John's eyes widened slightly, but as Mycroft turned to him he closed them and faked a yawn.
"Well, your endeavours have been satisfactory, all issues considered. The murderer has been found, and an International diplomatic crisis has been averted, there is nothing more one can do." The Queen's man sighed slightly with affected boredom.
"Mycroft..." Sherlock's indignation soared from his lips.
"There is nothing more one can do." The elder's eyes met his little brother's over the brim of the teacup. "Our Intelligence will eventually identify those who commissioned the murders, and they shall be quietly disposed of in a fashion acceptable to the dignity and tact of the crown, with no further risk to International diplomacy. You are to suspend all research in this matter, brother dearest. "
"What about those who were offering their assassin for hire, Mycroft? What about the wolves?"
Mycroft paused, for a fraction of a second, before delicately returning the cup to its saucer and standing up. "We will hunt for them if they howl again."
A few minutes later, Sherlock and John walked down the street, side by side in silence.
"Sherlock." John asked when he felt they were a safe distance away. "I'll admit an impressive part of your conversation was lost on me, but I couldn't help noticing something you left out."
His friend didn't slow down.
"The envelope, Sherlock. You didn't tell Mycroft of the envelope that man gave you before killing himself...You never even told me what was in it."
Sherlock kept his eyes fixed ahead.
"What was in that envelope?" John's voice deepened in wary foreboding.
His friend didn't answer, his hands curling into fists.
"What was in that envelope, Sherlock?"
His knuckles turned white.
.
.
Her shoes fit perfectly.
Elegantly understated black pumps with a discreet heel, ideal for standing around a lot.
Tasteful.
Appropriate.
Molly pulled down the hem of her dark black dress -long sleeves, boat neckline- so that it covered her knees.
She put on her coat.
A little white box rested on the table by the door.
Molly walked to it, opened it and pulled out a pair of simple black gloves with small buttons at the wrists.
She put the first glove on without troubles, but she struggled to sort out the button on her right wrist when the fabric covered both her hands.
Molly began to pant as she fumbled.
"Come on, come on." She muttered brokenly under her breath, fighting the urge to tear the gloves off and rip them to shreds.
Stupid gloves.
"Come on, please."
Please.
The shank button slipped into the loop.
Ok.
Ok, she could do this.
Molly picked up her small black clutch, took a deep breath, then walked out and locked the door behind her.
Doctor Mires spoke first. He was a compassionate, dedicated bla bla bla.
Then an old friend Molly had never seen gave his own speech. He was his roommate when he had been studying medicine, apparently. The man told a silly story of when the two of them had tried an experiment with a tin filled with cola, "feeding" it regularly with various items to watch it inexorably dissolve them, calling it "the Thing" and treating it as their household pet, which they would then introduce to unsuspecting guests...
As she stepped down, he gave her an encouraging nod. It was her turn.
Her heels echoed softly on the marble floor as she walked up, head held high.
No coffin, thankfully.
Her eyes briefly fell on his picture, grinning at her from the little table. In spite of herself, she smiled...And for some reason, that made it worse. She swallowed and looked away.
You can do this.
Molly spoke, presenting the little speech she had prepared with James' help. Something short, sweet with a funny personal story, to "keep it simple". She chose one of the stories he would always tell her.
The young pathologist had practised for hours in front of the mirror; she was determined not to falter or make a mistake when it was her turn, and she performed perfectly: she was poised, graceful and she never faltered. Molly told the amusing anecdote and managed to keep her voice from breaking. People would later say she had looked more mature, more grown up, the very picture of elegantly understated grief. James would have been proud.
She looked up to see the people listening to her. The hospital had kindly offered a space to remember him. When Molly had first seen it, she had thought it a bit much...
But then they came.
Students, colleagues, patients and friends filled the room to its maximum capacity, many of them on their feet...
Sherlock.
He stood almost against the wall, in his long black coat.
She summoned all her righteous wrath: how dare he come, the bastard… He probably saw funerals as a condescending, pointless and empty ritual for the sentimental and the superstitious… He didn't save Doctor Paten, he probably didn't even care he was dead…
His eyes met hers.
She felt ashamed of herself.
Molly had wanted to be angry, to hate him…But lying to herself wouldn't help. He wasn't a bastard, he simply was…Sherlock.
The infuriating scavenger of body parts;
The genius;
The friend;
The musician;
The one who always finished the custard creams when he slept over;
He whom she had loved;
The one who broke her heart over and over again…
Sherlock Holmes, the man who would never love her.
Molly looked away, turned her back on him and sat down. She forced her fingers to relax and her eyes to remain fixed on her boss, Doctor Amélie Hoffe, as she spoke of her husband. The pathologist felt a gaze burning into the back of her neck, but she was sure it was just her imagination, a fantasy she could no longer afford to give into.
When it was finally all over, she stood and, after a brief conversation with Doctor Hoffe, Molly went straight for the door, chin held high.
"That was a nice speech."
Don't answer. Ignore him.
No, that's rude. Don't be rude.
"Thank you." She replied simply, without stopping. She stepped out into the corridor.
"I'm glad to see you're not going to have any scars." He said, walking up from behind her.
None that you can see.
She didn't respond.
"Molly...How have you been?" He asked softly.
Something in his voice made her stop.
"It was kind of you to come, Sherlock, and it was very nice to see you again, but I have a plane for Manchester to catch, you see, so…"
"Oh." Sherlock took a step back. "I understand. It was nice seeing you, too."
She resisted the urge to bite her lip.
He put his hands in the pockets of his coat.
Molly stepped forward and placed a hand on his shoulder. Sherlock stood perfectly still as she stood up on her tiptoes and gently kissed his cheek.
"Goodbye, Sherlock Holmes."
His eyes closed for a moment.
Then she was gone.
.
.
"Merry Christmas, Molly."
"Merry Christmas, James."
"That's very fetching." He grinned at her from the screen.
"Thank you, it's the latest trend." Molly smiled back, dramatically posing in her big red Christmas hat. This one time, she would allow herself to look silly.
"I can't wait to see you again." He said warmly, and Molly blushed.
It had only been a month since she had returned to Rome. James had been waiting for her with flowers, presents and a week of shopping, pampering and wooing unlike anything she had ever experienced. He had swept her off her feet.
After that insanely romantic week in Rome, they had video chatted every day. James was kind, fun, loving...Everything she had ever hoped for.
He was perfect.
Just…Perfect. Yes.
And he was good for her! Molly had matured so much; she'd given up her frumpy knitwear and now only wore glossy, stylish grown-up clothes. She regularly went to the hairdresser -and not just for a trim- and had her feet and nails done, too. It was a lot of work, really, but she wanted to do it, for James.
He was perfect, and she wanted to be perfect, too.
"At what time is your flight tomorrow?" James asked.
"It should be at ten o'clock. I'll send you a text before I get on the plane."
"Are you staying at your mum's tonight, then? You weren't sure..."
"No," Molly shook her head. "There are too many of us in the house, and Rob is allergic to cats, so I'll be sleeping in my old apartment tonight. Mum will pop over to take care of Toby while I'm gone. He was actually happy to be back in his old place! I think he missed London, too."
James blinked. Molly froze as she realised what she had said.
You idiot. She cringed.
"I mean, seeing my mum and…"
"Aren't you going to be late for Christmas Lunch?" James interrupted her softly.
Molly looked at the clock and gasped. "Sorry James, I've got to go… I'll call you later."
Stupid, stupid Molly.
"Have a nice time, and wish Merry Christmas to your family for me." He nodded quietly.
"James, I..."
He laughed. "You worry too much, Molly! It's Christmas, go and have fun! I'll see you tomorrow."
Molly smiled with relief, waving as the screen went blank.
She was lucky to have him.
She wasn't going to waste her chance, not this time.
This time, she was going to be happy.
.
.
"Merry Christmas, Mum."
"Molly!" Her mother cried when she opened the door in her bright red apron. She grabbed her daughter and engulfed her in an enthusiastic hug. Her flustered pink cheeks pressed warmly against Molly's and the young pathologist closed her eyes.
Molly breathed in the smells that welcomed her. Oranges, cloves, roasting veggies…She had been away from home too long.
The house was cheerfully decorated, with the tree holding its place of honour in the living room. It was the same old plastic tree as her childhood, but despite the thinning branches and the crooked leg, it kept its role and did its job with the quiet dignity that only years of experience can give. Strategically placed presents covered the wonky leg, and there were so many decorations on the tree that one could barely see the branches at all, anyway!
Presents were exchanged in a cheerful cacophony of thank-yous and you-shouldn't-haves. It was with a slight sense of unease that Molly opened her mother's gift.
"It matches the jumper I made you!" She pointed out with pride as Molly pulled out a blue, knitted wrap. Small crochet cat heads adorned the hem.
"It's...Adorable, thank you, mum." She replied automatically, putting it on to please her.
She looked at herself in the mirror a moment, then hesitantly brought the fabric closer. It was so soft, and it still had her mother's perfume on it...
No.
The old Molly would have loved it, but knitwear was too frumpy and unfashionable for the new Molly.
She couldn't let James see her in this.
"Thank you." She replied simply, promising herself it would simply have to go in a box, along with the rest of her mother's projects.
They sat down at the table, and Molly enjoyed catching up on family matters and spending time with her loved ones as she tucked into her gravy-drenched Yorkshire pudding. After a while, a familiar topic arose.
"I hardly ever see you now that you're working in Manchester, Molly. Aren't you ever going to come back to London? I don't know why you had to leave before the contract expired; it's such a shame to pay for an apartment you don't use anymore. Ginny Rawles has told Uncle Stephen -you remember Ginny, don't you? She was in your ballet class, the one with the freckles and the strange haircut. Yes, Rob, she does have a strange haircut! I really don't know how anyone could willingly have her head shaved on one side and keep long hair on the other, honestly! It looks like she fell asleep on a lawnmower... Be quiet, Rob.- Anyway, she's told Uncle Stephen that as soon as the contract expires she's going to snatch that apartment, because it's so hard to find good housing, you know…"
Thankfully it was time for the Queen's speech, so Molly managed to avert the issue. It was going to be hard to tell her she might move to Italy, one day.
"Are you sure it's not a problem, Mum?"
"Of course not, dear! Toby's in good hands, I'll pop by every day. You go to Italy and have fun, don't worry. I'll call you if something happens, I promise."
"Thanks, Mum."
"Molly..." She looked at her lovely, sweet daughter. "Are you all right? Is everything ok?"
"Of course, Mum. It's getting late, I'd better go. I love you" Molly hugged her mother tightly before walking out of the house.
A quiet bus ride later, Molly stepped into her old apartment.
Some boxes covered the floor, the remains of hurried packing and a hasty escape. She still had a couple of months left before she had to empty the flat completely, so some personal items she hadn't found a place for in Manchester remained here, in the strange limbo of objects which might end up in the bin, at some charity or in her new home. Her eyes fell on a photo album and lingered there before moving past it to a small cat that lazily walked towards her, purring softly.
"Hello, Toby." She picked him up and hugged him delicately, his fur tickling her cheek. "I really have been neglecting you, haven't I?" Molly murmured, putting him back down on the floor, then promising herself to give him a little treat after dinner as she poured a particularly generous amount of food in his bowl.
"I'm going away again, but don't worry, you'll be coming too, next time." Molly stroked her pet as he munched happily, unaware of his servant's guilty conscience but content to enjoy its fruits.
Molly walked into her old bedroom to check her suitcase: stylish dresses, a simple black pencil skirt, sleek trousers, crisp blouses, everything was tidily packed and ready. She looked at the blue wrap her mum made, carefully folded it and placed it in a box with a sigh.
Molly made herself a cup of tea, using a plain white mug she had left behind, and looked out onto the streets of London.
"It'll be warmer in Rome." She whispered to herself as snowflakes gently fell from the sky.
.
.
The next day at 5 PM, Molly walked into the airport wearing a simple, brown velvet dress with dark brown pumps and a matching coat, her hair carefully coiffed and with almost perfect make-up, the result of two hours of painstaking application. Pulling her suitcase along, she looked up at the board: Heathrow to Rome, departure in just over two hours, terminal 5.
She went through check-in, smiled at the nice lady and watched the conveyor belt carry off her luggage.
There was a long queue at the security control, so Molly started to get ready by taking off her jewellery, placing it in a little bag she brought for the occasion, and slipping it into a pocket of her purse.
"Attention please." a woman's voice echoed through the airport. "Ladies and Gentlemen, we regret to inform you that British Airways flight JL7877 scheduled for departure at 7:15 has been delayed indefinitely. Please go to the Information desk for further updates. For customers missing connecting flights, please go to the customer service desk for assistance. We apologise for the inconvenience."
Moans and complaints rose as one voice in a momentary choir of indignation in response.
Apparently, it was going to be a long wait.
Molly looked at the now-even-less-enticing security check queue, sighed and decided to have something to eat first. She walked over to Caffè Nero and sat down in one of its brown leather armchairs.
While she waited for her espresso and slice of raisin and carrot cake, Molly realised that in her hurry to get ready and look perfect, she had forgotten to turn her phone on that morning.
Only a few moments after she typed her code in, her phone lit up: 5 calls from her mum and 2 voice messages.
Frowning slightly, Molly listened to the first message:
"Molly!" Her mother cried in agitation, "I can't take care of Toby, not for a couple of days. I'm sorry! Where are you? You're not answering your phone! I'll call the hospital in case you're there..."
The pathologist stood up in alarm and was about to call her mum when the second message started.
"It's me again, dear." A calm, tranquil voice soothed her daughter, "Sorry I had you worried. Your assistant answered and said that everything will be taken care of and they would send someone over, so don't worry: Toby will be fine. You go and have a lovely time; I'll talk to you soon. Love you lots! Bye!"
Molly breathed a small sigh of relief.
Oh, Jane. Wonderful Jane. She promised herself she would buy her assistant something nice while she was in Rome...A purse, perhaps.
Warm with feelings of gratitude for her amazing team in Manchester, Molly called her mum on the phone.
"Hello, dear."
"Hi, Mum. Is everything ok? What happened?"
"I don't quite know, really. Nana called all in a panic because Home Office came to her house to talk about Ligaya. I thought all her papers were in order, and so did she! Anyways, I have to go over there and help out, you know Nana can't cope on her own, and if Ligaya is sent away..."
"Of course. I'm sorry about Ligaya, I hope everything works out."
"Me, too. I'm sorry about Toby, dear. I was so frantic, I had 2 numbers saved as 'Molly work' and couldn't remember which one was the new number, so I kept calling both until someone answered! It was such a relief to know your assistant has the house keys and can take care of Toby instead of me; I don't know what I would have done..."
"Wait." Molly interrupted her mum, puzzled, as a thought began to creep into her head. Jane doesn't have..."Wait, Mum. Didn't you hand over the keys?"
"No, your assistant has them, don't you remember? He was very polite, told me not to disturb you, but I had already called you, of course..."
No.
"Mum, can you tell me what number you called?"
Molly closed her eyes, turning her face up to the ceiling.
This can't be happening.
Molly listened with hollow acceptance as her mother read out the number of the morgue in London.
Maybe it was Tom. Or John! That would be something good, kind John might do...
"He really was very polite, and such a good listener! You must have been very close, although I don't know why you would tell him about when I broke my toe as a child, or about my allergies..."
Oh.
"Yes, we were close. Uhm...Mum, I've got to make a phone call, so I'll talk to you when I get to Rome, ok?"
"Of course, dear. Take care! Bye bye bye."
Molly looked at her phone.
She was supposed select a number.
Her fingers didn't move.
Call him.
Call.
Just call.
Text him, then!
...
Call James?
"Attention please." The loudspeaker came back to life. "Ladies and Gentlemen, we regret to inform you that British Airways flight JL7877 scheduled for departure at 7:15 has been delayed and will depart at 10 PM. Please go to the Information desk for further updates. For customers missing connecting flights, please go to the customer service desk for assistance. We apologise for the inconvenience."
Molly looked at her watch. 5:45.
The waiter came, carrying her espresso, and left the hot drink on the table without her even noticing.
It slowly went cold as the pathologist looked into the distance.
"Excuse me, is this seat taken?"
Molly looked up.
A woman looked at her expectantly, a hand rested on the chair next to the pathologist.
"Is this seat taken?" She asked again helpfully, a slight mid-Western American accent colouring her speech.
How many things would he be able to deduce about her?
Molly snapped back to the present.
"Sorry! Oh, please forgive me. Of course, yes. I mean, no! The seat isn't taken. Sorry."
The woman smiled, mild confusion mingled with amusement in her warm eyes as she took the chair and sat at the next table.
Molly returned to looking intently art her phone, unconsciously biting her lip until any hint of lipstick was long gone.
"Hey...Are you ok?" The woman's brown hair moved gently as the American tilted her head encouragingly.
"I...I don't know what to do." Molly shrugged simply. "So I'm thinking."
"I've heard the muffins are very good..."
"No, no." Molly shook her head. "I don't know if I should go home or just leave and never look back again."
The stranger nodded with the commiseration of one who had once been in a similar predicament.
"I like cycling." She started, leaning back against a seat. Molly shifted, twisting to turn and look at the woman as she continued. "I'm an accountant, but when the weekend comes I breakout from the office and ride off on my bicycle. It feels like playing hooky from school: I take my time to think, get away from it all and just...Go." She turned to look at the young, troubled girl. "But one reason I like my little escapes is that, at the end, I get to go home. Once you figure out where your home is, you'll know where you want to be and where you need to go."
"You sound like an old friend of mine." Molly murmured. "Of course, he hated cycling: he tried it for a while when he wanted to get back in shape to impress his wife, but he would stop at every pub he'd see for a pork pie...He told me we fill our boxes when we run away."
"Boxes?"
"It's a long story." Molly shrugged sheepishly. "The question is," She muttered to herself. "Am I running to James, or running away from Sherlock?"
She shook her head. "I'm being silly." Molly chided herself. "I've made that mistake too many times." Molly stood up, her appetite long gone. "Thank you very much..."
"Donna."
"Donna. I'm Molly. Thank you for the chat. I've got to go through security, now."
"My pleasure. Have a great day. Oh, and..." Donna added as Molly turned away. "I know it's really none of my business, but...If running away hasn't worked, maybe you should try facing it head-on? I'm just sayin'. Have a safe trip."
Molly waved at the nice American woman and started walking towards the long queue at the security check area.
Time seemed to slow down.
Her heels echoed louder and louder at every step she took, gradually blocking out all other noises, the sound thundering in her head as the queue loomed closer... closer...
"And...There she goes." Donna murmured over her coffee as a woman in a brown dress tore through a mass of disgruntled passengers, her hair flying behind her as she raced across the polished floor, running through the busy airport as if her very life depended on it.
.
.
.
Author's note:
THIS IS IT, THE NEXT ONE IS THE FINAL CHAPTER! YAY!
I was supposed to post it sooner, but I stumbled on a Cameo (first of the review rewards, done!) and a little plot issue I couldn't get quite right. I am already working on the next chapter, which should be considerably shorter, too. Hopefully it will be ready VERY soon.
Warm thanks to: OpalSkyLoveDivine, coolaquariun, Guests, mrspencil, Icecat62, Reia, rose and sherloki'd, Bucky5 , Rocking the Redhead, SammyKatz, InMollysWildestDreams, likingthistoomuch for the lovely reviews.
Happy holidays, everyone!