Twelve Weeks Ago. St. Bart's Pathology Lab
Molly had been about to take a mid-morning break for some tea when one of her fellow pathologists came into the lab bearing a large package. When the male pathologist entered, Molly didn't notice him at first because she had headphones on and was looking through a microscope. So, when he tapped her on the shoulder, she jumped back a couple of feet in fright.
"I'm so sorry, Molly. I didn't mean to frighten you," he said.
Taking her headphones off, Molly smiled and said, "Oh, it's not your fault, Peter. I was in my own little world."
"Ah yeah, well. This came in for you this morning," Peter said, putting the package down next to the microscope in front of Molly.
"Equipment?"
"It says 'Personal,' so no one opened it up. Henrietta really, really wanted to, but I took it before she was able to 'accidentally' open it up."
"I appreciate that," Molly said, laughing.
"You up for tea?"
"Sure. I'll be along in a few minutes." With that, Peter smiled at her and left the lab. Molly examined the package. It did indeed read: "PRIVATE. TO BE OPENED ONLY BY DR. MOLLY HOOPER." She then looked at the return address: James Expraeteriti from somewhere in Cambridgeshire. She read the name and address out-loud to herself. Neither meant anything to her, so she proceeded to open the parcel.
She smiled confusedly at the fine perfumed scent coming from the box and the puffed-up pink frilly paper lining the box, both of which were wildly incongruent with their surroundings in the cold, sterile lab. She picked up the notecard on top of all the frilly paper and turned it over to read it.
"Dearest Molly,
Just thinking of our short time together.
Maybe we can make new memories.
Jim, from IT
XOXO."
She dropped the card back into the box as if it were on fire and flew backwards into the table behind her, trying desperately to get away from the package, hurting her back in the process. She then ran out of the lab clutching her mobile phone. As soon as she was out of the lab, she furiously texted the only man she trusted to help her now: DI Greg Lestrade.
Within ten minutes, the bomb squad arrived at St. Bart's along with a chemical weapons detection unit. It took over an hour to determine that the contents of the box were neither explosive nor poisonous and posed no existential threat to anyone at the hospital. Once the two units declared both the lab and the package safe, Lestrade, several of his Detective Sergeants, and Molly came back in.
Once inside, Molly turned to Lestrade and said, "I suppose we should let forensics catalog and examine the contents."
"Well, before they are let loose on it, I have to call Sherlock," said Lestrade, taking out his mobile phone for exactly that purpose.
"What? Why? Why does he need to be involved?" Molly was panicking.
"Molly, this involves Moriarty. Any incident possibly connected at all with Moriarty must be reported to Sherlock. Those are orders from the highest places in the British government."
"Moriarty is dead. I examined his corpse myself."
"Regardless, dead or not, if anything even remotely connects to Moriarty, I have strict orders to call Sherlock. And even if I didn't have those orders, I'd call him anyway because he knows more about Moriarty and his criminal enterprises than anyone else alive."
"Please, Greg, don't call him. Say it was a hoax, anything, just keep him out of it."
Lestrade was thoroughly confused as to Molly's unwillingness to involve Sherlock Holmes. The three of them, four including John Watson, had worked innumerable cases together. He rather considered them a team, so he was quite disconcerted to see Molly so unraveled by the great consulting detective's potential presence in the case.
"Molly, where is this coming from? Why are you so hellbent on not including Sherlock?"
Molly's frustration grew because she knew she couldn't tell Greg the full reason for her not wanting Sherlock on the case and, furthermore, because she knew nothing she could say would convince him not to call Sherlock. He was indeed under orders, likely from Mycroft Holmes himself.
She paced back and forth angrily a few times before throwing her hands up in defeat. "Fine. Do what you have to do."
Sherlock had arrived at St. Bart's in only fifteen minutes, a feat that involved coaxing the taxi driver into several illegal actions for which he was compensated by Sherlock with an exorbitant three hundred pounds. On top of the dangerous driving, Sherlock ran his own personal best from the street to the lab, arriving dangerously out of breath. Apparently years of terrible diet and occasional binge drug use had not done many favors to his cardiovascular health.
When Lestrade saw Sherlock breathless and heaving, he wondered aloud, "Sherlock, did you run all the way here?"
Sherlock didn't answer him but instead walked briskly toward Molly and attempted to pull her into a hug. Molly shrank back from him, which he should have expected, but somehow the action still hurt him deeply.
After all, they hadn't really spoken since that damned phone call from Sherrinford. He knew that he and he alone was to blame for her coldness now. That night after returning from the ruins of Musgrove Hall, he should have been the one to go to Molly to explain the circumstances surrounding what must have seemed to her the cruelest game he'd played with her yet. Instead, he'd let it up to, first Mycroft and then John, to do the explaining. In the intervening months, he forgot the contorted rationalizations he made at the time to justify his decision, but he'd somehow convinced himself that they would be able to set things right with Molly, make things go back to the way they were before Euros's cruelty had humiliated Molly and completely fucked with Sherlock's whole system of self-containment.
He had thought the recipe for normality, or what passed for normality in this strange world of his, would be giving Molly some healthy space for a few days and then going back into their friendship and working relationship as if nothing had ever happened, as if nothing had changed, as if no phone call had ever taken place. Tabula rasa. Surely, he had thought at the time, that would yield the best results, the best results being a turning back of the clock to before that damnable call.
As usual when it came to other people's feelings, Sherlock was wrong. After a week of giving Molly the space he thought she needed, he went to St. Bart's one day, determined to ignore the events of one week previous and to just get on with being the way they were.
What a fucking disaster, he remembered now. He walked into the lab evincing the same "devil may care" attitude he always tried to effect, but all that stopped abruptly upon seeing the look on Molly's face at the sight of him. Her complexion went instantly ashen. She looked like she was going to be sick, Sherlock thought. It's the shock, nothing more, he tried to reason with himself. She'll be fine in a moment. But that moment came and went and the ashen, sickly look was replaced with a look of burning hatred.
"Sherlock, please leave," she said through gritted teeth. Somehow, he hadn't weighed the possibility of such a reaction from Molly. So stupid . . . you're so stupid when it comes to people, Sherlock thought to himself.
"Molly, I know that . . . "
Molly came around the metal lab table that sat between herself and Sherlock and came within a foot of where he stood. She didn't flinch when she looked up at him and said, "You know? You know what, Sherlock?"
"I . . . I . . . " Sherlock sputtered, having never seen Molly so angry before, not even when she thrice slapped him for being strung out on drugs. " . . . I know that what happened was, um . . . " He stopped, unable to find the word he wanted to use, finally settling on "regrettable."
Molly nodded and laughed, but without real mirth. "Regrettable? Really?"
"Did Mycroft and John explain the full context behind . . . "
She interrupted him, "Oh, yes, yes, they explained everything Sherlock. It was quite a tag-team operation, both of them doing their duties like good little soldiers. No questions were left unanswered except one." Sherlock raised one eyebrow. "Where were you, Sherlock? Where were you?" Molly's voice cracked as she finished her reproach.
Sherlock swallowed, uncomfortable. "Molly, I . . . "
"It's too late, Sherlock. I wanted to hear from you then. Not now. And I don't want to hear from you now or ever again. Do you hear me Sherlock? Do you understand? Nod if you understand."
He had nothing to do but nod because, if he had tried to speak at that moment, his voice too would have cracked, himself dangerously on the edge of breaking down.
"I've ordered one of my top pathologists to work with you on Yard-related cases. It's Peter Murphy. He's the only one that will do it. You can work with him in one of the other labs. But one place you are never welcome again is this lab. Do you understand?" He again nodded weakly. "Good, then please leave."
By the time he reached the street in front of St. Bart's, he had to sit down on a bench because he was hyperventilating.
Four and a half months had passed in a blur of activity for Sherlock Holmes. There were occasional times when he and Molly would be forced to cross paths, as when, for example, she would be visiting John and his daughter. They would be coldly cordial to one another, all the while Sherlock hoping that, as the cliché promised, time would heal all wounds. As his arrival at St. Bart's and his thwarted attempt to comfort Molly at the discovery of this mystery package proved, however, Molly's wounds appeared to be still quite raw and exposed.
Lestrade, now painfully made aware by the scene before him that something was indeed amiss between the detective and the pathologist, handed Sherlock the gloves necessary to examine the contents of the package and then put a pair on himself. As Sherlock put them on and walked toward the box, he never let his gaze leave Molly's defiant and angry eyes.
"Why don't you leave this to us, Molly? We'll take care of it," Lestrade said.
"No, I'm staying. It was addressed to me. I have a right to see what's in there."
"It's against policy for the recipient to . . . "
"You bend policy all the time for Sherlock. Can I not be given the same courtesy?" Lestrade relented, a decision he would soon regret.
Sherlock first examined the return address on the outside of the package. "James Expraeteriti," Sherlock read aloud. "Latin. James from the past. Cute."
"We looked up the address," Lestrade said. "It's a flat near Cambridge University, rented mostly by students. We don't know if it's just an address of convenience or if . . . "
"That's where I lived during my graduate work," Sherlock offered, looking up at Molly, who just shook her head in annoyance.
"Oh, I see" is all Lestrade could say as he wrote down everything Sherlock said.
Sherlock proceeded to open the box and read the card. He then inhaled deeply. "Giovanni Castille's #1 Hide-Away. $5000 an ounce."
"Holy hell," Lestrade offered.
Sherlock peeled back the frilly paper and started to blush. He pulled out a barely opaque lacy black nightie. Lestrade cleared his throat. Molly looked away, blushing herself.
Clearing his own throat, Sherlock said, "One black nightie." He pulled the next item out—a pair of red thong panties—and handed them uncomfortably to Lestrade, announcing under his breath "One red thong." Each item removed seemed designed for maximum discomfort, Sherlock thought, trying his best to remain stoic and professional as he dug deeper into the box. At the third item, he lost the ability to make his mouth move. "A bus . . . a bus . . um, a . . . "
"A red bustier," Lestrade said, helping put Sherlock out of his misery. Neither of them looked in Molly's direction and Molly, for her part, was in her own level of Hell, leaning against the far wall of the lab, her head pointed downward and her whole body awash in a bright reddish hue.
"All three pieces of lingerie appear to be in Dr. Hooper's size," Sherlock sputtered out, without looking up. Lestrade cocked his head, wondering how Sherlock could know that.
Next, Sherlock fished out a tube of KY Jelly and a particularly intimidating-looking vibrator. He and Lestrade did their best to hide their obvious discomfort. Both of them failed spectacularly. There were only three more items in the box, for which Sherlock thanked whatever powers that be in this cruel universe. But more cruelty awaited.
"What appears to be a first edition of the Marquis de Sade's 120 Days of Sodom." Sherlock handed this item to Lestrade, who dutifully logged it in. "A pair of handcuffs," Sherlock said, while giving them to Lestrade. The very last item in the box was a thick envelope. Sherlock picked it up and felt it. Taking it out of the box, he opened the envelope to reveal about a dozen photographs. He began to take the photos out of the envelope to examine them when Molly let out of a sharp cry of "No."
Both Sherlock and Lestrade were shocked into looking up, having avoided looking at each other or Molly throughout the whole of the examination of the package.
"No, please don't. Let me see them first," Molly begged Sherlock, with her hands outstretched.
"Molly, I don't think that's a good . . . " Sherlock began.
"I don't know what they are, Sherlock, but I deserve the chance to look at them first. They were mailed to me."
"Molly," Greg came around to stand between them. "You know procedure. We have to look at them and catalog them. We are breaking the rules just letting you be in here with us."
"Please, I'm begging you, Greg." Then she appealed directly to Sherlock. "Please, Sherlock. I . . . I'm afraid of what's in those photographs. Please I can't have you looking at them if it's what I think . . . Sherlock? Just let me look. Please." She was crying.
Sherlock handed the photographs to Molly. He didn't even think about it.
"Sherlock!" Lestrade yelled at him and threw his hands up in the air, exasperated.
Molly had taken the envelope with a shaking hand, slowly opened it, and, with a sense of dread written on every feature on her face, looked at the first photo. Instantly, she broke down into a sob and collapsed on the floor of lab.
Sherlock went over to where she lie quivering on the ground and ripped the photographs from her hand without looking at them.
"Sherlock, no!" Molly yelled through her sobs. But Sherlock continued back toward the table with the photos in hand, never looking at them. Lestrade picked up his pen and notebook, ready to catalog the final, horrible items from the package. Instead, Sherlock turned on the Bensen Burner and proceeded to set the photographs ablaze before Lestrade even knew what the detective was doing.
"What the fuck are you doing? That's evidence," Lestrade yelled at Sherlock.
"No, this is wanton cruelty."
"What you've done is illegal."
"So, arrest me."
"God-damn it, Sherlock. What am I supposed to do now? What am I supposed to say to my superiors?"
"That there were seven items in the box and that you dutifully cataloged them all."
"Oh, Jesus Christ, Sherlock." But Sherlock knew from the look on Greg Lestrade's face that he would do as Sherlock asked.
Reviews are things of beauty and keep the demons away and the muses close by.